


Tailspin

by ViScribbler



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Monster, Dubious Consent, Dysphoria, F/F, F/M, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, LGBTQ Characters, M/M, Multi, Murder, Panic Attacks, Religion, Slavery, Slow To Update, Smoking, Smut, Speciesism, Suicide Attempt, Trans Characters, Underage Drinking, Witchcraft, google translate french, kind of, o boy there's a lot of characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-26 09:43:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 54,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9884150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViScribbler/pseuds/ViScribbler
Summary: Ever since Philip woke up on the train with no memories, his thoughts have been a constant, desperate stream of fine, fine, fine, fine. He's lost and alone. He's fine. No one is human. He's fine. He might be headed somewhere to be killed. Fine, fine, fine. But when people actually start dropping dead around him, it becomes harder to deny his current state. Which is, of course, doomed.





	1. In Which Philip Experiences Culture Shock

_ Car 5, 8:46 AM EST _

Someone once told Philip that when you awoke from sleeping with a jolt for no apparent reason, an angel had let you slip out of their grasp. Philip extends his thoughts to his memory to identify who that person had been- it sounds like the kind of slightly morbid but folksy thing a grandma would've said to him as a kid. It’s like reaching for a rung on a ladder and being met with empty air. There’s nothing. Philip has no memory. No childhood, no family members, no friends, no knowledge of the interior of a train that surrounds him. He sits up straight as soon as the realization hits, a spike of anxiety causing his heart rate to double.

“You okay there?” asks the passenger sitting in the seat across from him with lazy interest, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to speak.

Philip rakes his gaze across the compartment hurriedly. He takes in his surroundings, trying to find some source of familiarity to stop his freefalling through the abyss of his memory. The compartment is dimly lit by the slivers of light that showed through the beige curtains covering the windows. It’s a decent size, maybe forty feet from one side to the other, and not terribly wide. There’s room for a person to walk between Philip and the person across from him easily. He and the person are seated at the very end of the compartment, next to a door that leads to a different compartment, if Philip had to guess, but there’s a curtain on the door’s window as well, so there’s really no telling what’s beyond it. The seats are worn tan leather, and the wallpaper is a dark chocolate and the pattern is outdated. Outdated from what standpoint in time? Philip has basic knowledge but no source for the knowledge, and it’s infuriating.

“Hey. Buddy.”

The other passenger’s voice is somewhat grounding. Philip turns to look at him, not bothering to wipe the deer in headlights look off his face.

“Do I know- wh-who- where am I?” The words come out in a jumbled hybrid of a question.

The other passenger laughs, snuffing his cigarette out on his seat, and Philip feels strangely offended.

“That’s a lot of questions, kid.”

Now he’s more offended. He couldn’t be more than a year or two older than him at most. Definitely not enough to warrant calling him kid. He’s fairly good-looking, too, but that observation doesn’t have a whole lot of priority in this situation. He has short, thick, dark hair, light brown eyes, and fairly brown skin, maybe of mixed descent. Even sitting down, Philip can tell he’s all bones and pretty tall, certainly taller than Philip.

“I don’t… remember…” Philip could finish that sentence in a lot of ways. Who he is, where he is, what’s going on… he just settles for ending the sentence there. “I don’t remember.”

“Ah, sudden amnesia, that son of a bitch,” the stranger says, and Philip can’t tell if there’s humor in his voice or not. “Got my grandfather back in ‘06. He still thinks I’m his deceased husband. Awkward having to break your granddaddy's heart every Yuletide, huh?”

Philip’s pretty sure that was supposed to be a joke, but it’s so pathetic he doesn’t laugh. The stranger clears his throat.

“Well, you know what they say about amnesia.”

“What?” Philip asks.

He snorts and leans back in his seat. When he realizes Philip’s still staring at him expectantly, he elaborates,

“You know, it’s funny, because you don’t know, because you have amnesia, get- oh, forget it,” he groans. “Don’t happen to remember your name, do you?”

Philip nods, taking solace in that fact.

“Philip,” he supplies. 

“Surname?”

Philip shakes his head.

“Nothing.”

“Check your luggage,” he suggests.

Philip finds a suitcase on the seat next to him which he assumes is his. The tag says his first name is Philip alright, but his last name is just an indecipherable inky smudge. Just his luck. According to the birth date on the tag, he’s 18, and his birthday is January 22nd. That’s useful knowledge. He guesses. He opens the suitcase and then closes it at the first sight of a binder. He’s not about to let this stranger see his undergarments within the first five minutes of meeting them. He does have some class.

“Nothing helpful,” Philip sighs. “But thanks for the suggestion.”

“You have a ticket?” the other passenger asks.

“Um…” Philip demurs, while his hands move to his jacket’s pockets automatically. He finds a small rectangle of paper, which, lo and behold, turns out to be a train ticket when he pulls it out. “Yeah.”

“You definitely belong here, then,” he says with a new certainty in his tone. “Hold on to that. People are willing to lie, cheat, fuck and kill to get one of those bad boys.”

Philip blinks, putting his ticket back in his pocket, then buttoning the pocket for good measure.

“So… where is this train going?” Philip asks, deciding that's a pretty relevant inquiry.

“Well, it hasn't started yet. We’re still loading,” he answers cheerfully. There’s a silence where both of them are awkwardly aware that Philip can see that he just avoided answering the question.

“I don’t think I’ve told you my name,” the other passenger says suddenly, holding out his hand. “Call me Price.”

Philip shakes his hand. He's got a firm grip.

“Is that a last name?” Philip asks.

Price nods.

“I get one name from you, you get one name from me,” he says, like it's a children’s math problem.

“But I only know-”

“Shh,” Price shushes him. “I have my own reasons for abstaining from telling you my first, alright? No need to get nosy.”

Philip can take a hint, and shows his palms in defeat.

“Backing off,” he assures him.

There’s a sudden scraping noise, and Philip jerks in surprise, then relaxing as soon as he realizes that it’s a door on the wall opposite him on the other end of the compartment opening. It’s a sliding door, and it seems that it’s been frozen shut. Whoever is on the other end is having some trouble. Philip has almost decided to get up and see if he can help when the door starts to inch open, letting bright light and cool air enter the car. 

“Wait, if the door is frozen shut, then how did we get in here?” Philip wonders out loud. He may have just lost all of his memories, but he’s desperate to have life make sense as soon as possible. Everything seems normal so far. He will not become that person at the beginning of a horror movie.

“I came into this car through there,” Price said, inclining his head towards the door at the end of the compartment. “I entered the train a car up by accident. The other passengers didn’t take it lightly. I don’t know about you. You looked like you were asleep when I came in, so I didn’t bother you.”

“Oh.”

Okay, that makes sense. He might’ve entered from the other car like Price. Or maybe he entered the train a while ago, long enough for the door to have frozen over. He was going to ride this train until he got where he was going, and then maybe he’d figure everything else. Maybe there’d be a family member waiting for him at the stop, and they’d be able to explain everything, or get him to a doctor so he could get his memory back. Everything was fine.

The person who was trying to get in the train finally got the door open enough to get through. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, cursing under his breath and shivering. He turned to face Philip and the normalcy Philip had been trying to build up shattered to pieces and fell to the ground at his feet.

“This is Car 5, right?” the person asks irritably, stomping snow off their boots.

Philip sees Price nod in his peripheral vision, maybe he’s saying something, but Philip isn’t registering any of it, because oh God, what the hell? The person is  _ blue,  _ they’re fucking blue, and there’s no way it’s face paint. The blue is lighter and darker in places in a way that’s much too realistic and complex to be makeup. There’s even a dark teal-ish blush across their cheeks and nose from the cold. And their ears- could they even be called that? They looked like oversized fish fins stuck to the side of their head, and quivered slightly as Philip watched. Their eyes are pitch-black, so dark that you can hardly make out a pupil, and strangely shiny. There’s something about them that’s deeply unsettling. Or maybe it’s just the fact that, you know,  _ they’re fucking blue. _

Philip finally manages to drag his gaze away. He stares at his lap, trying to calm his breathing while his heart pounds in his chest. His hands are shaking, and, trying to focus on anything but the person standing in the compartment with them, latches onto a detail he notices. His hands have freckles. He has freckles, and he didn’t even know it. What the hell is going on? He hears the person take a step forward, the sound of the fabric of their coat rubbing together betraying their movement. His eyes dart up instinctively, and he’s unable to stop himself from staring. The person has dark, almost black hair that’s pulled into a ponytail that reaches just past their shoulders, and eyebrows and short facial hair of the same shade. They’re not too tall, probably taller than Philip, but then again, most people are. He’s wearing frost-encrusted winter wear and it occurs to Philip that Price is wearing appropriately warm clothing as well, whereas Philip’s in a sweatshirt and jeans. The person still looks miffed from the frozen door, but as they sit down a few seats from Price and drop their bags, they visibly relax, and Philip sees a semblance of a smile tugging at their lips for a moment. They turn to them.

“Sorry ‘bout that. I’m Alexander Hamilton by the way,” he introduces himself, leaning over the seats and sticking out a gloved hand. 

“Price,” Price returns with a smirk Philip can’t understand the reason behind. “A pleasure.”

“Oh, likewise,” Alexander agrees, sitting back in his seat and pulling off his gloves. Philip swallows at the sight of webbed fingers.

“This is Philip, by the way. He seems to have lost his voice,” Price adds dryly.

Philip can’t even make a quip back. Alexander grins, and Philip shrinks back a bit at how impossibly sharp his teeth are. He has a shark’s smile.

“I don’t bite, Philip,” he laughs, an unfortunate choice of words after Philip’s latest observation.

“S-sorry,” is all Philip can think to mumble.

“This weather, right?” Alexander complains, reaching up to remove his scarf. As soon as the fabric is out of the way, horizontal slits on his neck are revealed. He has gills. Of fucking  _ course  _ he does. “I hate weather up here. Can’t imagine living through a winter like this every year.”

“Oh, last winter was much harsher,” Price comments. 

“Really? Sheesh,” Alexander says, setting his gloves and scarf down on top of his bags.

“Six feet of snow. A lot of people couldn’t leave their houses.”

Alexander and Price continued with their opinions of the weather, and Philip pulled his hoodie down and leaned back in his seat. If he fell asleep throughout the train ride, he wouldn’t have to look at Alexander and have his reality torn apart every second. Maybe he’d wake up and find that this was a dream, or some sort of drug-induced hallucination, because he’d never had a dream like this. Well,  _ actually,  _ he doesn't remember, but he feels like he never has. 

The door slides open again, easier after whatever Alexander did to defrost it, and Philip tries not to look up. He doesn’t want to know. He really doesn’t, except for the oh-so-human curiosity burning at the back of his mind. He keeps his hoodie down, but he can’t help but steal a look, catching a glimpse of someone sitting at the end of Price and Alexander’s row. Whoever it is doesn’t seem to be one for conversation, as the car is filled with silence for just a few more seconds than are comfortable. Then Alexander speaks up.

“Car 5?”

There’s an affirmative grunt in response, then another beat of silence.

“Hey, uh, I’m Alexander Hamilton. Didn’t catch your name.”

The person waits for a long enough pause to show that they’re reluctant in answering, but he seems to have already noticed, like Philip, that Alexander doesn’t seem to be the kind of person you can exactly ignore. 

“John Laurens,” he answers in a young, male voice. There’s something about it that tugs at the back of his mind, igniting memories Philip doesn’t have. He doesn’t think much of it, but it’s enough to prompt him to look up again.

John Laurens is a young man who looks to be about Alexander’s age, older than Price and Philip. His curly brown hair is in a ponytail similar to Alexander’s, and his tan complexion suggests a Latino background. There’s a bitter expression on his face that makes it look like he  _ really  _ doesn’t want to be here. Another detail registers and Philip forces himself to take deep, calming breaths. John’s skin is dotted with what seems to be freckles at the first glance, but as he watches, hues of yellow, amber, and crimson dance across them. It looks like there’s a fire burning inside of him, and the strange, glowing freckles are the only indication.  _ Trick of the light,  _ Philip’s mind suggests weakly.

“Nice to have you joining us, Mr. Laurens,” Price says smoothly, and Philip notes his skill at somehow sounding both polite and inexplicably sarcastic simultaneously. “You can call me Price.”

His dark eyes dart to Philip with a pointed look, and Philip starts.

“Oh- uh, I’m Philip,” he manages.

John huffs and leans back in his chair, arms and legs crossed. He couldn’t’ve looked less approachable.

“Cool.”

Philip guesses that this is around the time that they were told to show up, because another two people enter the car soon after John muttered that conversation killer. They’re both tall, but one of them is  _ extremely  _ tall, having to duck to enter the cart. The taller one has warm brown skin and dreadlocks pulled into a thick ponytail. The shorter one has slightly lighter skin, as well as straight, loose brown hair that’s brushed over one shoulder. They’re both extremely attractive and clothed in clearly expensive garb, making them look out of place with the shabby car and its passengers. Alexander is clearly having similar thoughts, as he asks,

“Excuse me, are you sure you have the right car?”

The taller one cocks his head slightly.

“ _ Excusez-moi?” _

“They only speak French?” Philip suggests.

_ “ _ Ah-  _ Désolé, ce que j'ai dit était, êtes-vous sûr que vous êtes dans la bonne voiture?”  _ Alexander asks in what sounds like fluent French to Philip’s untrained ear.

The taller one seems a bit surprised, then lets out a laugh that could only be described as a giggle. The shorter one slapped their arm in a playfully reprimanding manner.

“Gilbert!” they groan, then turn to Alexander and speak in accented but fluent English. “Ignore them. They speak English perfectly well. And yes, I'm fairly sure we’re in the right car. This is car 5, correct?”

“That would be correct,” Price affirms.

“ _ Bon, merci beaucoup _ ,” the taller of the two says, as they and their partner sit a seat away from Philip.

This time Philip can recognize the impishness in their voice, the shine in their eyes- their eyes that are just a shade too bright to be brown. They have red eyes. The other’s are even more startling, a canary yellow that’s strikingly bright compared to the black of their pupil. At this point, Philip’s just relieved they don't have gills. The sight of Alexander still makes him unsettled.

The passengers go through their now routine introductions, Philip getting out his name with minimal stuttering this time. John did not partake in the name giving. The taller one introduces themself with a ridiculously long name, then suggests they simply call them Lafayette. The shorter one has a slightly shorter name, which still had about four middle names, and said to call them Adrienne.

“Oh, and they/them pronouns for both of us,  _ s’il vous plaît, _ ” Lafayette informs them.

They say it casually, but Adrienne is glaring like they’re prepared to get in a fight with anyone who questions it. Not surprisingly, if anyone had any grievances to air, they kept their mouth shut. Lafayette only then seems to notice John, who is slumped in his chair, clearly trying to create the opposite effect.

“I don't believe I caught your name,  _ monsieur _ ?” Lafayette prompts him.

John lets out a hissing sigh and sticks out his hand half-heartedly.

“John Laurens.”

“ _ Un plaisir,”  _ Lafayette smirks.

They’ve got fangs, Philip notes. Huge, protruding canines so sharp it's a wonder you can't see them even when their mouth is closed. But it's fine. He can deal with fangs. They take John’s hand more delicately then one would for a handshake, then they dip their head and press their lips to his knuckles, looking smug. John immediately yanks his hand away, ears burning and light jolting to life across his skin. 

“What are rich French bastards like you doing in this shitty car, anyway?” he snaps.

“Now, let's be civil, Mr. Laurens,” Price says, raising his hands slightly in a universal  _ calm down _ gesture.

“He does ask a good question, though,” Adrienne laughs good-naturedly. “Me and Lafayette immigrated to America from France about… four months ago?”

Lafayette nods.

“We both come from families with a lot of wealth, but we no longer have access to that money in America. We knew we were taking that risk when we moved here, though,” Adrienne smiles, and Lafayette squeezes their hand.

“Are you two married?” Alexander asks curiously.

Lafayette drops Adrienne’s hand with a scoff. 

“ _ Mon Dieu,  _ no,” he says, as if the very notion is ridiculous.

“We’re not in a relationship,” Adrienne laughs.

“Adrienne wishes,” Lafayette grins, again displaying his abnormally sharp canines. 

As much as Philip tries to avoid it, he can’t help but think of vampire lore. Well. Alexander was blue, and John glowed, and Adrienne had yellow eyes, and Philip had no memory, and Price just somehow seemed off. Would it really be that odd for Lafayette to be a vampire? A throb of pain signifying the start of a headache springs to life, like a physical manifestation of how much Philip can’t comprehend what is going on. The conversations seem so mundane, like pleasant snippets of small chat you’d hear on regular trains, between regular people. Philip doesn’t know about the train, but the people certainly don’t qualify as regular. He doesn’t even know… he doesn’t even know if they qualify as human. He’s shaking again, but there’s a strange sort of calmness inside him. An eye of the storm kind of thing, where everything just makes so little sense that he’s stopped trying to comprehend it.

The conversation has turned to relationship talk in the brief period of time Philip had been tuning them out. From what Philip can tell, Alexander’s talking about his girlfriend- Kitty Lewis- Lowe? Livingston? Something with an “L”. 

“-and everyone in my town either believes or perpetuates all these rumors just because she’s not aquatic- it’s ridiculous, honestly!” Alexander speaks in a very animated way, gesturing widely and almost smacking Price on the nose. “Clearly interspecies relations are possible and can be just as deep as so called ‘pure’ relations- now, I’m not exonerating Kitty in any way, really, it’s just interspecies relations in general, you know. It’s the exact same kind of sh- stuff as same sex relationships- I don’t want to get political, actually…”

He trails off like he’s just now realizing how outspoken he’s being, but no one in the car seems fazed, aside for maybe Price, who still looks concerned that he’s going to be whacked in one of Alexander’s pantomimes. 

“Oh, no,  _ mon ami _ , feel free,” urges Lafayette, and Adrienne nods.

“I share your opinions, trust me,” Price says.

“Me too,” Philip adds, feeling obligated to give his two cents, being who he is. Granted, he has no idea what this whole interspecies relationship thing is about, but he can make a pretty good guess. 

John is the only one not to give his input, sliding down in his chair a little like a moody toddler. Alexander seems to decide that conversation is better left untouched.

“Anyway, it’s not like I’ll even see her again,” he resolves with a nonchalant shrug. Philip instantly feels the car fill with tension. Lafayette and Adrienne exchange a look. John shifts in his seat and Price flickers his gaze up to the ceiling. Clearly, Alexander has touched on a topic everyone would rather leave unsaid. Alexander wrings his hands in his lap nervously, but doesn’t back down.

“Well, it’s true,” he says defensively. “I don’t know if I’m ever coming back to regular life. And if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t go back to that cesspit.”

To Philip’s surprise, John gives a short bark of a laugh.

“I’m with you there,” he chuckles.

“Nobody at home?” Alexander asks sympathetically.

John shrugs.

“I- nah. There ain’t really-” he pauses. “-anybody. That’s why we all came here, right? Because there’s nothing the world’s really offering anymore? We’re in Car 5. We’re not here to become famous or fulfill some kinda social status bullshit. We’re here because there’s no reason not to be.”

“I wouldn’t say-”

“You said it yourself!” John cut Adrienne off. “You two have nothing here in America. I’m guessin’ you didn’t come here for the hell of it, if you don’t have any money or nothing. I mean, you wouldn’t’ve got on this train if you had plans to go back to France- either that, or you didn’t know what you were getting into.”

Lafayette opens their mouth to make a retort back, but at that moment the door nearest to Philip opens. Someone slips through the door so quickly that he can’t catch a glimpse anything beyond it, though he does feel a cool draft. It’s a tall, gangly man, maybe not Lafayette’s height, but close. His chestnut hair is slicked back impeccably and he regards the car and its passengers with a bored look, hazel eyes sliding from person to person with distaste. He wears a red uniform with white pants and black dress shoes, and a golden name tag pinned on his jacket reads “ _ Henry Clinton” _ . He clears his throat, but before he can speak, the door to the outside of the train slides open.

Another man bursts in, about Clinton’s height and incredibly broad-shouldered. He has dark skin and is dressed plainly but fashionably in a vest and an indigo beanie pulled down over his ears. He shuts the door behind him and collapses into the chair at the opposite end of Philip’s row, across from John, breathing heavily.

“Sorry, missed the bus,” he pants. “I had to run here-”

“Save me the chatter,” Clinton cuts in with an almost comically thick British accent. “Who might you be?”

“Uh, Hercules- Mulligan- I have a ticket, i-if that’s what you mean-” he stammers, reaching into his pocket.

Clinton stalks to the other end of the car and holds out a hand impatiently. Hercules fumbles with his pocket until he finally extracts his train ticket, placing it into Clinton’s awaiting palm. He takes it and inspects it like it might be a forgery, then sighs and hands it back to him.

“Don’t lose that,” he warns him, pulling out a clipboard he had tucked under his other arm and marking something off with the pen attached to it.

Clinton moves down the row, checking Adrienne and Lafayette’s tickets and marking them off as well. He moves down again, this time standing in front of Philip expectantly. Philip hands him his ticket nervously. He guesses this is it; the moment which he learns whether he’s really supposed to be here or whether is all some colossal fuckup. Clinton asks,

“Name?”

“Philip,” he replies quickly.

Clinton scans his list, frowning.  _ Oh God,  _ Philip panics internally.  _ Something’s wrong. I’m not supposed to be here- or my name isn’t even really Philip and I’m just delusional- or it’s under my birth name, shit, I don’t even remember my birth name- _

“Last name?” Clinton prompts.

Philip swallows anxiously as all eyes turn to him judgmentally, or at least it  _ feels  _ that way, because he can’t answer the question. What is he supposed to say? He has nothing- oh God, they’re going to kick him off the train and he has no idea where to go-

“Last name,” Clinton repeats irritably.

“I don’t know,” Philip manages to get out in a small voice.

“What?”

“I can’t remember,” Philip whispers, cringing at how strange that must sound. 

The pause seems to drag on, the car silent except for the pounding of Philip’s heart beat in his ear, his chest straining with held breath. Clinton exhales with a huff, tapping his pen against his clipboard.

“How inconvenient,” he says. “I’ve got two Philips on the list. I’ll have to bring this up with His Majesty. You can stay for now.”

Philip has no room his mind to question this “Majesty” character, flooded with this relief, and terror that still lingers for some reason, and nothing else. Clinton turns to check the other side’s tickets and Philip slumps back. His head hits the barely cushioned back of his seat. His hands are clasped tightly in his sweatshirt pocket. There’s a dull ache at the back of his skull that only seems to be worsening, and he can barely think to nod as Price mouths a “you okay?” to him once Clinton has moved from between them. Philip can see questions burning on the tip of Alexander’s tongue and he’s not eager to explain that he has no answers for him. So he shuts his eyes and drops his head to his chest- his neck is going to be sore when he wakes up, he knows, but sleeping is the only foolproof way he can think of to ward off an interrogation.

Philip knows that dreams are just bits different memories pieced together to form some mimesis of a real plot, so it’s really no surprise he dreams of silence, cigarette smoke, knife-like teeth, and vivid red eyes.

\---

_ Car 4, 9:21 AM EST _

There’s nothing more embarrassing than being responsible for a crying baby in a public place.

Mattie can feel disapproving looks on her from the car’s other passengers as she bounces Frances lightly, shushing her in low tones. It doesn’t help; Frances is wailing at the top of her tiny lungs, tears and snot dribbling down her face. Mattie doesn’t know what’s setting her off. It could be the unfamiliar environment, or the presence of monsters like the banshee in the corner whom the sandman has a possessive arm around that Frances never would’ve seen in their area of South Carolina. She could be hungry, or sick, or needing to be burped. She could just be crying for no reason. Mattie didn’t know, and she had that helpless, exhausted sort of feeling that hadn’t seemed to leave for long since Frances was born seven months ago.

“Hey, miss,” snaps the sandman. “Can you shut your kid up?”

Mattie has only seen a sandman in person once before, one of the days she’d been taken to the slave market with her mother. He’d been one of the salesmen, and got in an argument with her mother over the unreasonable price he’d been trying to charge her. Over the next month, her mother was coincidentally plagued with night terrors. Mattie was, thus, a little wary of them. His wide-brimmed hat failed to cast any sort of shadow on his face thanks to the way his golden skin seemed to be a source of light itself. Mattie, however, was all shadows, thanks to the way specks of her skin glowed but others didn’t. She wasn’t sure why that stood out to her, but it was an interesting observation.

“I’m trying, sir, but they don’t come with an off switch,” she replied through gritted teeth.

His lips curl back.

“How about I come over there and-”

“James,” pleads the banshee quietly.

The sandman- James Reynolds was what he told the man who checked their tickets, if Mattie remembers correctly- seems to relax a little, but his grip on the banshee tightens, pulling her closer to him. There’s a hint of discomfort in her posture that doesn’t go unnoticed by Mattie, and the fact that she has her arm wrapped around her swollen midsection makes her even more uneasy.

“Let’s hope when you finally have that little brat it gets its mama’s manners,” Reynolds grins at her, laughing harshly after his statement. She smiles slightly, then shoots an apologetic look at Mattie. At least, Mattie thinks she does, but it’s hard to tell since she has no iris or pupil, her eyes the typical banshee blank white. If she’s being honest, banshees give her the creeps too, but she doesn’t want to generalize.

Frances still hasn’t quit crying, and Mattie resumes her bouncing and shushing routine. She meets the startling green eyes of the scrawny angel sat across from her and smiles politely. His gaze quickly drops to the floor. He’s brought his feet up to his seat and is hugging his knees. His pale face and alabaster wings have nearly no pigment besides for the golden light of his halo. They certainly wouldn’t be in any trouble if the lights on the train were to go out, Mattie thought. They could provide light source enough with just herself, Reynolds, and this angel (Samuel, was it? She really should’ve paid attention when they were giving their names to Clinton. It would be awkward to ask now.)

There are only two other passengers in the car. One is a square-jawed, hollow-cheeked man sitting at the end of Mattie’s row, whose foot is creating an incessant tapping noise. Mattie isn't really one to judge another passenger for making noise, though, as she continues attempting in vain to quiet her daughter. The man has the same blank eyes as the banshee, which Mattie finds strange as he has none of the ethereal quality of a banshee. The final passenger is a centaur. Back in South Carolina, centaurs mainly worked as manual laborers. They weren’t slaves, but they had always seemed to be pretty close. But this was New York; Mattie could cast aside the southern prejudices. Still, she’s a bit surprised when she addresses her.

“They’ve got quite a lot to say, haven’t they?” the centaur laughs amiably.

Mattie chuckles.

“I guess so,” she smiles.

The centaur is a pretty young woman, around Mattie’s age if she had to guess, with dark skin that highly contrasted the pearly white of her equine half. Her hair was styled mostly up, besides for a part in the back that was braided to the nape of her neck. She beams at Frances, and her smile somehow makes Mattie feel at ease.

“What’s their name?” she asks.

“Her name is Frances,” Mattie answers, proud smile creeping onto her face. No matter what, Frances would always be her pride and joy, the shining pinnacle of her life so far. She knows that’s why John made her be the one to take Frances; even though she cries every time Mattie picks her up, she has the patience to deal with her. John does not.

“What a pretty name!” she compliments.

Leaning over, she wiggles her finger at Frances, cooing in the kind of voice reserved for babies and animals. Frances stops crying almost immediately, giggling and reaching out to grab the centaur’s finger with her delicate little hands. Mattie expects to feel something like resentment that this random stranger on the train can calm her own daughter down better than she can, but instead she just feels relief. Relief, and a warm, inexplicable affection for this woman she’s just met. She’s just impressed with her baby-calming expertise. Yeah, that’s it.

“Sorry if I’m being weird,” the woman laughs apologetically. “I just really love kids. My name’s Elizabeth Sanders, but you can call me Liz.”

“Oh, no, you’re fine,” Mattie assured her. “I’m Martha Mann- whoops, Laurens now. Martha Laurens. But you can call me Mattie.”

“I’m taking a wild guess and saying you go by Mattie the same reason I go by Liz,” she grins. “Too many Martha’s in your grade school class?”

Mattie laughs, and it’s a genuine laugh that comes from the bottom of her lungs, a sound a person hasn’t been able to coax out of her for awhile. She nods, feeling her bun hitting the back of her neck from the movement.

“Exactly.”

Now that Frances has quieted down, the whole car seems to have a more relaxed ambiance. Reynolds has relaxed his grip on the banshee a bit, and she herself looked like she might be nodding off. The angel still seems on edge, but he seems to have struck up enough confidence to meet the eyes of the blank-eyed man at the end of her row. His eyes instantly shift to mimic the angel’s emerald, and Mattie is hit with a realization. He’s a doppelganger, one who seems to be in his usual state, since his power is only manifested in his eyes, which steal the appearance of anyone who meets their gaze. The angel- she’s like  _ 90%  _ certain that his name is Samuel now that she thinks about it- seems to realize this too, looking startled. The doppelganger offers a weak, semi-apologetic smile, and Mattie stifles a laugh.

In that moment, she could almost forget what’s waiting for them when the train reaches its destination.

\---

_ Car 3, 10:00 AM EST _

Paine loves a good joke, and nothing tickles their funny bone more the whole masquerade people put on they know everything isn’t actually okay. Their whole life is just a never ending cycle of dramatic irony, and they’ve stop taking it to heart. At some point you have to stop weeping for that woman on the bus with the flowers who think’s she’s going to be met with her smiling fiance but instead will be met with a corpse hanging from the ceiling, and just chuckle. Bad things happen all the time, and as a semi omniscient being, you just can’t take them too seriously. Yes, black humor was definitely Paine’s forte. So naturally, this whole invitation thing was just  _ hysterical  _ to them. 

Everyone  _ knew  _ that people didn’t return from the King and Queen’s. Paine at least trusted people’s intellect enough to think that they weren’t all blind optimists. Not  _ all  _ of them could think that the invitees from previous years were off somewhere living a nice, quiet life. Thus, the only logical conclusion was that these people knew, they  _ knew  _ that by coming to that train station they were willingly going to their deaths. And it wasn’t like they were suicidal- at least, not all of them. It astounded Paine, really. It was a bit hypocritical of them, though, since they were there too.

Why were they there? Every year, Paine had watched the chosen with their heads held high on their little death march and laughed. They saw the slit throats of their future, the fingers gripping throats until their lips turned blue, the blood seeping from underneath heavy objects. And they laughed. Even if anyone listened to sphinxes, they wouldn't've told them. They weren’t about to spoil the punchline. Now, they were on the same train, with the same ticket, no doubt riding to the same fate. It was different, though. They were blind to the future now. Everywhere else was clear as a bell, past and present laid out before them. But everything beyond this train was swathed in darkness, and it was  _ thrilling _ . Paine knows they’re most likely going to die because they got on this train, but they were willing to do anything to escape the predictable monotony of seeing everything.

“Dolley Todd,” they speak up suddenly.

The vila’s head jerked up, setting her silver robes into a ripple of movement. She was pretty, no doubt, and if romance or sex was Paine’s cup of tea, they might be interested. Her platinum hair is cut short and choppy like she did it herself in the bathroom with a knife, but it somehow works. Her skin is pearly white, and her ice blue eyes makes their stomach twist in a way that might’ve translated to something else if Paine wasn’t what they liked to consider “immune”. Other people may use more technical terms like “asexual and aromantic”, but immune sounds much more impressive. It comes in handy, especially when dealing with creatures like sirens, incubi, succubi, or, in this instance, vilas.

“Do I know you?” Dolley asks warily.

“We might’ve crossed paths,” Paine answers breezily. “How’s Mr. Todd? The boys? Little Will Temple?”

Dolley’s posture changes from slightly suspicious to furious in a second. She waits a moment, trying to restrain herself, fists balling tightly. She snaps,

“Who are you and what do you want?” 

“Thomas Paine. Just to satisfy my curiosity,” they answer. “Tell me, Dolley, what would prompt you to leave behind behind sweet little John?”

Dolley’s lips part in disbelief, and she stammers,

“H-he’ll be safer w-with Anna-”

“So you leave him with your sister because you don’t want him to die. Yet you seem to have no qualms with making him an orphan at- what, four months away from his second birthday, is it not?” Paine grins.

God, they were such an asshole.

Dolley stares. Takes a deep breath. Slams Paine’s head against the wall of the car with a gust of wind. Paine’s smile doesn’t falter.

“How about you fuck off and leave her alone, you bastard?” snarled the mermaid from her open tank, propping her elbows up on the side, soaked blonde hair dripping onto the carpeted floor. The harshness of her retort was diluted a bit by her thick, pleasant Italian accent. Maria Cosway, Paine noted. With the long European “i”.

“I’m just making small talk, Miss Cosway, dear,” they reply, lazily gesturing in a motion that clearly displays their claws. They would never dream of killing any of the fellow passengers- oh no, they wanted their death to be a surprise. But they wanted them to know that they could gorge their eyes out at any time. “Sorry,  _ Mrs.  _ As much as you’d like to forget, amirite?”

Cosway flips him off with a gold-painted finger.

“Let’s not fight, please,” speaks up the ghoul sitting forlornly in the corner, as ghouls are known to do. John Barker Church. Paine sees flashes of a gun pressed to his head, a funeral full of weeping friends and family in black. “Please try and be polite, sir.”

Paine frowns.

“Not ‘sir’ if you will, Mr. Church. ‘Mx.’ is fine. Or just Paine. Or just ‘bastard’. Seems to work well for Mrs. Cosway.”

“I will stab you,” Cosway threatens, swishing her golden tail- same shade as her nails, how very color-coordinated- in aggravation. 

“My apologies,” Church recovers. “But I’m still going to have to ask you to leave those ladies alone.”

“The situation was under control,” Dolley says through gritted teeth.

Paine chuckles, because it was, but not Dolley’s. Paine has… somewhat of a hobby of stirring people up. It’s not like they’re unintentionally irritating, no, they can be charming if they want to be. But where’s the fun in that? Being completely calm when when everyone around you was having their judgement clouded by anger is just entertaining to Paine.

“Can you all shut up?” whines the imp sitting across from Church with piercings all along his grey, pointed ears. Charles Lee. He’s had his eyes closed ever since they’ve boarded the train, though Paine knows he wasn’t really sleeping. “ _ Some _ of us are trying to sleep.”

“It is ten in the morning,” remarks the young gargoyle next to Cosway dryly. George Eacker. Sometimes Paine wonders how inconvenient it must be to have to have to actually ask people’s names, and not just have it pop in their head- as well as their entire life story.

“I’m an imp! Do you know what that means, or do I have to explain it so your tiny little pebble brain can understand it?  _ I’m nocturnal!” _ Lee snaps.

“Oh, my mistake,” Eacker snarks back. “Let all of us monsters with  _ regular  _ sleep schedules change our behavior so you can get your beauty sleep.”

“ _ Regular?  _ This is what’s natural for my species, you insufferable chunk of shitty fucking granite-”

The only person in the car besides Paine who seems immune to the sudden bellicose atmosphere is the skinwalker on Dolley’s right. John Jay. Born as Sarah Jay. Paine would pity their home life if they weren’t so used to meeting people like this. Jay’s monolid eyes are glassy, a thin film covering his naturally blue irises. Blinded by illness in his childhood. His glasses are engraved with runes written by a witch that allow him to see. He fears losing or breaking them because he doesn’t have enough money to buy a new pair and blindness terrifies him. Ah, people are such open books, and Paine is just cracking the spines of these ones. Gone are the dog-eared paperbacks of the people of their hometown. Paine extends their thoughts with casual interest to the next car.

\---

_ Car 2, 10:59 AM EST _

God, James hates small talk. The first few hours of the train ride were spent mostly in silence, besides for half-hearted introductions. It was  _ fine.  _ But no, Thomas being who he was, he just  _ had  _ to strike up a conversation with the pleasant-looking family sitting across from them. And Patsy being who  _ she  _ was, she just  _ had  _ to join in. Now James felt obligated to contribute, but he had nothing to say.

“So how old are you, Theo?” Thomas asks with what seems like genuine interest.

“16,” answers the teenage girl brightly.

She’s the spitting image of her mother, a bright-smiled sylph sitting to her left. In fact, about the only differences besides their ages are their hair; as Theodosia Jr. wears hers in a short Afro as opposed to Theodosia Sr.’s dreadlocks, and their eyes. Theo has dark plum eyes, barely a shade lighter than ebony. She clearly gets them from her father, a djinn sitting to her right. The whole ride, James doesn't think he’s seen any of their smiles falter once, and the parents look almost  _ too  _ young for Theo to be 16 and their biological child.

“So you’re almost done with your schooling, then,” Thomas says. “Any plans for college?”

“Of course, of course,” Aaron, Theo’s father, says quickly.

Sighing quietly, James slides down a bit in his seat as he turns the next page in his book. He can't concentrate enough to read with all the chatter, so the book is more of an excuse not to engage in social interaction. He casts a side glance over at the couple in a different one of the velvet-cushioned booths, a portly poltergeist and a valkyrie wearing a headscarf. John and Abigail Adams were their names, he recalls. They don't seem the socializing type, thankfully.

The car itself is quiet nice, James notes. It’s warmly lit and the seats are clearly of quality. Every so often Clinton, whom he assumes is a worker for the King and Queen, will come by and take orders for drinks. Thomas already has two empty glasses on the table in front of him and it's not even noon. He’s lucky he can hold his alcohol well.

“So are you two brothers?”

It takes James a moment to realize that he means Thomas and him. He bites back a laugh as Thomas cocks his head and deadpans,

“Do we  _ look  _ like brothers?”

James and Thomas, as a daimon and incubus, respectively (or as Patsy liked to put it, knockoff angel and devil), couldn't look less alike. Then, there was also the obvious discrepancy in size. Still, as stupid as Theo’s guess was, Thomas was being rude. He yanks his hand down under the table, and sees the invisible string dig into the skin of Thomas’s arm. It doesn’t hurt him all that much, but it’s enough to give him a warning. James clears his throat.

“Excuse him. But no, we’re not brothers. Thomas and I are married,” he explains. The word feels unfamiliar and heavy on his tongue, but in a good way. It’s been six months since he proposed, two months since the actual ceremony. Sometimes James still forgets. Thomas nods and reaches to take his hand under the table, and James can feel the metal of their rings clink together.

“I see,” Burr responds, having lost none of his pleasantness, but James doesn’t miss the way his eyes flicker to Patsy questioningly.

“And Patsy here-” Thomas takes his other arm and puts it around her shoulders. “-is my girlfriend.”

The kitsune smiles, the edges of her lips twitching in a way that lets James know she’s holding back a laugh. Her tails are swishing in their confined space between her and the seat, and Thomas nudges her with a leathery wing. James groans internally. Those two are going to be the death of him.

“How lovely,” Theodosia Sr. comments, sending Aaron a look James knows all too well.

Thomas is going to continue the conversation, he’s going to fucking do it. James is going to be further humiliated by these two clowns and have to swallow even more forced small talk. He won’t stand for it. He’s done. He shifts his glance to the edge of the table to confirm the thin tablecloth reaches the floor of the car. Nothing underneath would be visible from the Burrs’ booth. James untangles his fingers from Thomas’s, sends a wink Patsy’s way, and slides his hand to ghost over the crotch of Thomas’s pants. His mouth snaps shut instantly. There was about one surefire way to make Thomas Jefferson shut up, and it wasn’t James’s fault if he had to utilize it.

\---

_ Car 1, 11:28 AM EST _

Peggy tends to get bored exceedingly easy, so a day-long train ride was really pushing her limits. She lay on her back, digging her shoulders into the cushioned mattress.  _ You could have sex on this bed if you wanted _ , she thought. She didn’t want to, of course. But you could. That couple in the same car, not her parents, the sorcerer and the nature nymph, Mr. and Mrs. Washington, were probably taking advantage of that at this moment. Okay, nope, rerouting thoughts. Bad Peggy. 

She rolled over onto her stomach, now next to the table at the side of her bed. She propped herself up and drained the last of her lemon margarita. It was  _ far  _ too early in the morning to be drinking, but Mr. Clinton had  _ offered,  _ okay? She set down her glass with a satisfying clink against the polished wood of the bedside table and shoved her face into the plush blankets. Finally, she picked herself up and pushed on the crimson silk curtain that separated her area from Angelica’s.

“Angieee,” she whispered, “Hey. Hey Angie.”

“What?” comes her eldest sister’s irritable response.

Instead of answering, Peggy lifts her wand, mumbling an incantation. She drags the tip across the curtain in a square shape, and the included fabric turns transparent as glass. Angelica’s unimpressed face is staring back at her, pink lips pursed. Her sister swipes a few stray, curly, black strands of hair that have escaped her bun back, then asks,

“What do you want?”

“Companionship? Love? The sweet caresses of a genuine connection?” Peggy smiles, batting her eyes.

“You’re a dork,” Angelica returns with a snort. Her gaze drops to the margarita glass. “Peggy…”

“Clinton asked!” Peggy says indignantly. “He’s British. He probably doesn’t know about the American legal drinking age. Or he does, and he doesn’t give a flying fu-”

“ _ Peggy.” _

“You’re no fun,” Peggy pouts. “Maybe I’ll go over to Eliza. She loves me.”

Angelica raises a dark brow, returning her attention to the thick book on her lap.

“Right.”

Peggy rolls away, the curtain resuming its normal state after her wand breaks contact with it. She turns to the curtain on her other side, repeating the same incantation and drawing a window into the middle sister’s section. Eliza jumps a bit, startled.

“Hi, Peggy,” she smiles. “What’s up?”

“Angelica doesn’t love me,” Peggy says, frowning exaggeratedly.

“I highly doubt that,” Eliza chuckles.

“It’s true,” Peggy sighs dramatically.

Peggy turns, whipping her ponytail around, as the curtain to her section is pulled away. Clinton stand there, hands clasped behind him formally.

“Pardon me, Miss Schuyler. I just wanted to inform you that the train is going right on schedule, and we should be arriving at the palace in about six hours.”

Peggy bites back a groan.

“Right. Uh, thanks,” she says.

Clinton bows his head, then pulls the curtain shut again. Peggy collapses back on the bed, and Eliza giggles.

“Want to order another margarita, Margarita, dear?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Peggy grinned.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I hope the extensive exposition wasn't too much of a bore. Things'll pick up real fast, I promise.  
> All characters are real historical figures, of course.  
> I'd like to apologize in advantage if I slip up on pronouns. If you notice that or any other errors, notify me and I'll fix them!  
> I'll try to update every Wednesday, but I am still a student with a shit ton of homework, so I can't guarantee anything.  
> Please comment! I love to hear your feedback!


	2. In Which Clinton Hates His Job

_ Car 5, 3:41 PM EST _

“Kid.”

Philip’s eyes stay shut as the fog of unconsciousness starts clearing from his mind. 

“Hey. Kid.”

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, and he’s instantly awake, jerking away from Price’s touch. His eyes snap open to meet his.

“Don’t call me kid,” Philip mumbles groggily, sitting up straight and brushing his sweaty hair away from his neck. “You can’t be much older than I am.”

“How old are you?” Price asks, raising in eyebrow in amusement.

Philip doesn’t answer right away, feeling uneasy about the question for some reason.

“I’m 19,” Price tells him in response to his hesitance.

“Then we’re not too far apart. So no more calling me kid,” Philip grumbles, stretching.

There’s a dull, aching kind of tightness in his chest, no doubt from sleeping for however long he had in a binder. He should really take it off, but there’s no discreet way to do that in a train car like this. He glances around, the heavy sense of dread coming back as he takes in his surroundings. Nothing’s changed, really, but his heart still skipped a beat everytime he caught a glimpse of John’s strange luminescence, or Lafayette’s teeth, or, well, Alex in general. The late arrival, Hercules, was laughing uproariously at something Lafayette had said. He certainly lives up to his name, Philip notes. He’s broad-shouldered and muscular, and everything about him is just  _ loud _ . The way he speaks, the way he moves, it’s all intimidating.

“You’re awake!” Alex notices, smiling at Philip. “Clinton says we’ve got a couple hours or so left to go.”

“Right,” Philip says, scrubbing his eyes in an attempt to wake himself up more. He turns to Price. “Why’d you wake me up then?”

“Did you not get any sleep last night?” Price chuckles.

Philip blinks blankly.

“I dunno.”

Price nods slowly.

“Anyway, it’s past three. You should have lunch.”

“I, uh…” Philip’s gaze drifts to his suitcase, which has been tucked under his seat as he’s slept. “I don’t think I have anything. I’m not hungry anyway.”

Philip barely reacts in time to catch the object Price tosses his way. It’s something wrapped in wax paper, a sandwich by the look of it.

“Wh-”

“There’s your lunch,” Price says, and there’s was a look in his eye that just dares Philip to argue with him.

“O-oh,” Philip stammers. “Thanks.”

The door on the other end of the car opens and Clinton enters looking hurried. Philip immediately jumps at the opportunity, stopping him with a, “Mr. Clinton!” Then, as an afterthought, added a “sir”.

Clinton pauses, fingers tapping on his side impatiently.

“ _ What.” _

“Sorry, um, is there a bathroom on the train?” Philip asks, feeling awkward asking, even though it was a perfectly reasonable question.

“Oh, my- no, there’s no bloody  _ bathroom  _ on the  _ King’s Train _ ,” Clinton snaps, and for a moment Philip sits uncertainty, until he says, “Of course there’s a bathroom, dimwit. Go through Car 4.”

“I was just asking,” Philip mutters exasperatedly once he thinks Clinton is out of earshot. 

He whips around as soon as the words leave Philip’s mouth, and for a fraction of a second, his eyes look like they’ve got flames flickering in them, so intense that it’s as if Philip can actually feel the heat on his face. But it’s gone as fast as it came, and Philip doesn’t have much time to question whether he imagined it before Clinton growls,

“I will  _ not  _ take impudence from someone like  _ you. _ ”

Philip doesn’t know what he means by that, but his venomous tone is almost enough to push him to argue back. Adrienne’s hand lands on his wrist and stops him. For a moment Philip and Clinton stare at each other, each daring the other to back off. Adrienne’s grip on his wrist tightens. Philip drops his gaze.

“Sorry.”

Something tells Philip it’s not a word he says very often, judging by how his pride stings afterward. He can hear Clinton’s footsteps as he leaves, apparently satisfied by Philip’s mumbled apology.

“What were you thinking?” Adrienne scolds. “Provoking a sorcerer?”

Sorcerer? Philip remembers the imperial red, wide-brimmed hat Clinton wears. It  _ does  _ remind him of a witch’s hat. His stomach does the somersault it always does when a realization that something isn’t quite right about this place hits him, but it’s becoming more subdued the more instances it occurs.

“I-I don’t know,” he says quietly.

“Why would you do something so stupid?” they continue to gripe. “He could’ve hurt you! He could’ve hurt anyone in this car! Who are you to talk back? A lowly selkie? Brownie?”

“Watch yourself,” Hercules growls.

Adrienne twists their torso around to glare at him.

“And  _ you _ , thinking that just because we’re in the same car we’re somehow equal-”

Lafayette grabs Adrienne’s arm, murmuring something in their ear. Adrienne relaxes slightly. Lafayette pulls away from them, smiling nervously at the rest of the passengers. John looks like he’s ready to tear Adrienne’s throat out.

“Adrienne meant no offense,” Lafayette says. “They were just- ah, somewhat overwhelmed with this new atmosphere. Their remarks are the results of being too careless with their privilege, unfortunately. And they meant no offense with asking you, Philip, either-”

“I don’t know about in France,” Price says slowly. “But here in America, we tend not to ask that sort of thing.”

Adrienne takes a deep breath, closing their eyes for a moment and then opening them.

“My apologies,” they say. “I may have overreacted. But it was still reckless.”

“Yeah,” Philip agrees, even though he still doesn’t know  _ why  _ it was reckless. “I’m sorry.”

He waits for a moment for an apology to Hercules, but none comes. He doesn’t dwell on it too long. He stands, muttering something about going to the bathroom and praying no one questions why he’s taking his suitcase.

He passes through Car 4, and he keeps his head down. According to Price, they don’t seem to receive other passengers very well. The  There’s a kind but tired looking young woman with the same freckles as John, holding a sleeping baby with a tuft of dark hair, who smiles at him. When he’s halfway through the narrow hallway, he’s just starting to think that he can get through the car without confrontation.

“Yo, kid!” the golden-skinned man accosts him. There’s a pregnant woman leaning against him, asleep. Tendrils of smoke like dry ice curl around her scarlet dress and dark skin. “What are you doing in here?”

“With your whole suitcase?” His eyes narrow. Philip swallows.

“Leave the kid alone, Reynolds,” the woman next to the mother says. Her chair seems to be folded into the wall to make room for her to kneel. Seeing as she has the bottom half of a horse, it’s probably the only logical way for her to sit.

“Excuse me?” the man, Reynolds, jerks his arm, waking the woman leaning against him. “You wanna disrespect me again-”

Philip decides to just go, stumbling a bit in his haste. Just before he shut the door behind him, Philip makes eye contact with a grim-looking man sitting in the corner. He has hazel eyes that strike Philip with a recognition so strong that it seems like a physical sensation, a slap in the face out of nowhere. The door shuts before he can see them for long. He takes a deep breath, then winces at how his lungs strain to fill with air. He really needs to get this thing off.

The compartment he’s standing in now seems shorter than the other two, and has the same identical doors on either side. There’s no door to the exterior of the train in this one, though. In fact, about the only features of the car are three doors, labeled  _ men, women,  _ and  _ family _ , and a small table on the wall between the men and women’s, on top of which sits a vase with a single chartreuse flower. Its wilting petals suggest it’s been there awhile, and Philip decides to focus on that rather than the strange golden particles floating lazily around the vase. He enters the men’s bathroom.

When he’s exiting the bathroom, he notices his reflection in a mirror he didn’t even notice when entering in his haste. He can’t help from staring. He’s got dark, curly hair that reaches around his shoulders, and tan skin, too dark to be white. Like noticed before, he has freckles absolutely everywhere. He says a silent prayer of gratitude that they’re not glowing. He’s short, which he figured. The feature that really stands out, though, is his eyes. Dark-lashed, narrow, hazel. The exact same as the man’s in car 4. A chill runs down his spine, and he tears his gaze away.

On the walk back through Car 4, he averts his eyes to the other side of the compartment, away from the man. He catches a glimpse of a skinny person who looks like they can’t be older than Philip curled up in their chair, with what appears to be a halo and wings, dressed in what looks like white bishop’s robes. Which tells Philip two things; one, angels are apparently a thing, and two, he can remember what bishop robes look like and not his own last name. Typical.

He slips back into his seat in Car 5 as inconspicuously as he can, feeling self conscious.  No one really seems to acknowledge his return except Price.

“I see you survived Car 4,” he says with what Philip thinks is a smile. Price seems to have an eternal smirk plastered on his face, so it probably doesn’t mean anything anyway. 

“Apparently,” Philip says. “What was that guy’s problem?”

“The sandman?”

Price sees the lost look on Philip’s face and glances back at the other furtively. None of them are paying attention, all of their focus on Lafayette. They’re telling some story about a time they were at a ball with the Queen of France animatedly, Adrienne occasionally translating when they get excited a slip a French word or two in. Price exhales.

“The man with the hat,” he clarifies, expression still neutral, but Philip can see him toying with the edge of his coat nervously.

“Oh, yeah, him,  Philip nods. “Reynolds, I think it was?”

“James Reynolds, yeah.”

There’s a beat.

“He had a woman with him.”

Price’s smirk falters a bit.

“Yeah. His wife.”

Phillip feels his stomach twist. Not in the way it does when something supernatural happens, but in a different, more mundane, but more uncomfortable way. She looked barely out of her teens, she was pregnant, and Reynolds seemed like a thoroughly unpleasant person. The pieces click together to form a picture he doesn’t want to think about. Their silence allows Lafayette’s voice to fill the car.

“-and so I am thinking,  _ mon Dieu, madame _ , just tell me to stop! But she is just watching me with the most peculiar look on her face, and I realize she is trying not to laugh. But she does not tell me to stop! And then I realize that she is doing this on purpose! I do not know how word got to her that I cannot dance to save my life, but it must have.  _ Dieu merci _ Adrienne was not there. She never would have let me forget,” they finish, grinning.

“I wouldn’t have to. You are eager to tell this story every time you meet someone new,” Adrienne says dryly. “ _ Attention salope. _ ”

Alexander laughs, covering his mouth with a hand, and Adrienne looks embarrassed.

“I forgot you spoke French,” she confesses. “I didn’t mean seriously-”

“I know, I know,” Alex says quickly.

“Revealing my weaknesses to my enemies, Adrienne. What a betrayal,” Lafayette jokes, hand over heart dramatically.

“If only somebody could fill in me and my fellow non French speaking friend here is on Lafayette’s so called weakness, that would be great,” John sighed, referring to Hercules and him.

His tone is friendly, and Philip can’t decode any kind of hidden meaning in his words, but Hercules seems to shrink back a bit, which looks almost comical with his hulking frame. John frowns, opening his mouth, then shuts it again hastily. The others in the car don’t seem to notice.

“I don’t understand French either,” Price laughs easily. “But I can pick up enough from context clues to make an educated guess.”

The rest of the train ride passes rather uneventfully. Philip eats the sandwich Price had provided him, and Price waves off any attempts of his to thank him for it. It’s clear that Lafayette and Alexander are the loudest personalities in the compartment, with Adrienne and John inserting sarcastic comments here and there, and Price picking up the conversation whenever it starts to die out. Philip listens diligently for lack of a better pastime, The one person who sticks out to him is, ironically, the person saying the least. Hercules Mulligan. He laughs at the others’ jokes, is clearly listening, and sometimes looks like he wants to say something, but catches himself. He seems to have a nervous tic of pulling his beanie down further over his ears.

Just a few minutes after Clinton informs them they’ll be arriving in about half an hour, something strange happens. Lafayette and Alexander are discussing France’s current political state very passionately when Lafayette gestures a bit too sharply. A golden bracelet on their wrist slips off and hits the ground. Almost instinctively, Mulligan scrambles to pick it up. Lafayette only pauses speaking for a minute, and holds out the arm the bracelet flew off of. Mulligan slides the bracelet back on their wrist, gaze downcast. Lafayette barely acknowledges him. Philip thinks to the incident with Adrienne, Hercules’s fear when John addressed him, now this. Something doesn’t add up. Philip almost says something, but he catches Price shaking his head ever so slightly out of the corner of his eye and decides to keep his mouth shut. If he questioned every odd behavior on this train, he’d never stop asking questions.

\----

_ Car 5, 5:30 PM EST _

Philip must’ve dozed off again, because he’s opening his eyes, feeling detached and somehow more tired than he was before sleeping. It hits him that the background noise of the train’s wheels grating against the track is gone. The train has stopped. He gets to his feet along with everyone else in the car, pulling his suitcase out from under his seat. Clinton enters through the door to Car 4, muttering something about how he had to do all the work around here. He seems to get more aggravated every time he enters the car.

“Alright, rabble, out. Single file line once you’re outside, follow the car before you. If you step out of line, I’m burning your ticket to a pile of ash and then cursing your face until it matches,” he says, scribbling something on his ever present clipboard. He trails off, muttering almost incoherently. “I swear on all things holy, if Howe doesn’t take this job next year, I’m gonna…”

Philip doesn’t like Clinton in the least, but he feels a twinge of pity.

He finds himself at the end of the line when they step outside into the freezing air. He hugs his sweatshirt closer, shivering immediately. He knows from when he was going through his suitcase in the bathroom that he doesn’t have anything warmer. He could’ve put on multiple layers, but the thought hadn’t occurred to him at the time. Alex, who’s in front of him in line, notices his discomfort.

“Do you not have a jacket?” he asks, concern written all over his features.

“N-no,” Philip answers, trying to stop his teeth from chattering with sheer force of will.

Alex’s frown deepens. 

“Here.”

He unwraps his scarf with gloved fingers, holding it out to Philip. Philip shakes his head.

“I’m fine,” he says adamantly.

Alex ignores him, wrapping the thick material around his neck tightly, without suffocating him. It’s still warm from the contact against Alex’s skin- incredibly warm, actually. Philip’s still freezing, but he’s stopped shivering so violently.

“Y-you’re too kind, Mr. Hamilton-”

“Just call me Alex,” he insists. “Mr. Hamilton makes me feel old.”

“Okay then,” Philip smiles.

The line starts moving, and Philip takes in their surroundings. They’re in what looks like a country side, with deep valleys carved in the landscape all around. Dense evergreen forests cover the horizon all around. Snow coats everything, the surface untouched. The only features to marr the unblemished fields of white are the train tracks, which seem to abruptly end right after where the train has stopped, and the stone path they’re walking on. The path doesn’t have a single snowflake on it.

Looking up the line at everyone in front of him, Philip swallows. He thought he had the whole inhuman thing worked out, but the menagerie of beings before him was a bit too much to process at once. The pregnant woman from Car 4 floats a few inches off the path. The angel from the same car is unfolding his wings, looking like he’s about to take off, but his feet stay plodding along the path. Barely anyone looks human from the other cars; Philip notes a person with thick, curly black hair like a lion’s mane that fits all too well with their feline lower half. Right in front of them is what looks like a fishbowl on wheels, with someone inside. How they’re not being frozen alive is beyond Philip. He also notices a ghost-like figure, two men with wings, one feathery like the angel’s and the other’s leathery like a bat’s, and half a dozen people with the same witch-like hats that Clinton has.

Philip doesn’t know how long they walk for, just that it’s long enough that his fingers are completely numb, no matter how far he tries to shove them in his pockets. Any conversation that the others had was quickly squashed by the freezing wind. He found a focal point after a few minutes of walking. There’s a blue jay flying above the group in front of Car 4. It stands out vibrantly against the monochrome world around it, its wings beating hard to stay erect against the wind current. Philip finds himself staring at its dance-like travel, and the blustering cold is a little more bearable. 

After what was logically only a few more minutes, but felt like eternity, the line crested a hill and a building came into view at the bottom of the valley before them. ‘Building’ didn’t really do the structure justice. It was a palace, indisputably. Pearl grey bricks made up the at least five floors. There were turrets all over the building, but there was one tower that rose above the rest, some lower cloud gathering around the peak. Gardens were scattered around the grounds, miraculously still alive despite the thin layer of snow gathered on them.

The line had collectively stopped, all gaping at the wealth on display before them. Then Clinton’s voice, clear as if he was talking in his ear, says,

“Alright, enough gawking. Get moving, all of you.”

They get in motion again in a few moments. Philip can’t tear his eyes away from the palace. As he gets closer, he notices that there are red curtains covering each and every window. Just like the train. The ‘king’, as Philip has only heard him referred to thus far, certainly seems to favor the color red. For whatever reason, the palace, though awe-inspiring, also makes him feel uncomfortable. There’s an animalistic instinct in the pit of his stomach that says to run. Just bolt. It’s completely irrational, but it’s so overwhelmingly strong he almost listens. He shakes his head slightly.  _ Snap out of it, Philip. _

The group reaches the front doors in a couple more minutes, and Philip jumps as the blue jay plummets to the ground. In its place appears an Asian man wearing round glasses engraved with strange markings. The blue jay was a person, a shapeshifter of some kind. Philip’s throat feels dry. He turns his attention back to the palace, to the towering double doors before them. Clinton steps forward and gives the left door one, two, three swift knocks. There’s a pause, then the door creaks open. 

A man stands in the doorway, dressed in the same uniform as Clinton, minus the hat. He’s  _ ridiculously  _ tall- he’s at least half a foot taller than Clinton, who already stands at about six feet. Red and gold feathers poke out from the collar of his shirt, and wings that look like they’re made purely of flame are spread behind him. Their light dances off his clean-shaven head. He’s got thin, angled eyebrows and cruelly narrowed eyes. His nametag reads “ _ William Howe. _ ” Philip already hates him.

“How nice of you to finally join us, Henry,” he remarks. He’s got the same British accent as Clinton. “It’s 5:42. Do you know what time our treasured guests were supposed to be here?”

Clinton bristles.

“I wasn’t even supposed to have train duty this year, Howe! I’ve done it the last blasted  _ four years _ -”

“And you’ll continue to do it until you can figure out how to be punctual,” Howe interrupts smoothly. “Watch your tongue. You don’t outrank me here, and you’d best remember that.”

The two men glare at each other for a moment, until Clinton drops his gaze.

“Sorry,” he mutters like a petulant kindergartener told to apologize.

“You never answered my question,” Howe says, raising an eyebrow.

“5:30,” Clinton sighs.

“Twelve minutes, Henry,” Howe states airily. “I suggest you memorize that number. Go.”

Clinton disappears through the doors, scowling. Howe turns to the group, smiling thinly.

“I apologize for him. Welcome; please step inside. It’s far too cold to wait outside.”

The group obliges, and a voice in Philip’s ear mutters,

“He seems like a treat.”

Philip starts, then realizes it’s Price. He laughs.

“Oh, yeah,” he returns sarcastically.

He decides he trusts Price. Sure, he also trusts Alex, but the fact that Price seemed so much more human than everyone else helps. Furthermore, he likes Price. He’s glad to have someone slightly grounding out of this group.

The entrance hall is huge, at least a few stories high, with giant chandeliers consisting of hundreds of diamonds hanging at intervals. The walls are- surprise, surprise- a vibrant shade of red. Huge staircases run along both of the walls. Along the center of the hall is a long table set with dozens of seats, a golden table cloth, and fine china. Paintings line the walls, of mainly landscapes and other natural things. There’s one painting of a person, dressed in royal attire, complete with a crown and everything. But the canvas on and around the person’s face is stained pure black, obscuring all his features. The stain looks like someone scraped across the surface with black ink on their hands. It was a bit unsettling.

The group slowly files in, arranging in a semicircle-ish mob in front of Howe. Philip maneuvers himself between a few people to get around standing behind Lafayette’s colossal height. 

“I’m afraid His Majesty and Her Highness are unable to greet you personally this evening. They’re… preoccupied. They extend their apologies. However, they did leave a series of instructions,” Howe informs them. “You will be shown to your quarters, and change for dinner. After dinner, you will remain in your rooms until tomorrow morning, when you will receive further instruction.”

A man from the front of the line, presumably from the first car, cleared his throat obnoxiously. His tall black witch’s hat was the only thing that made him taller than the pretty but older woman he had his arm linked loosely with. Standing poised behind them in order of decreasing height were four women- or rather, three women and a child, around ten if Philip had to guess. They all wore a monochrome color palette of a different color. Everyone in the family (Philip guesses, at least, but they don’t really look all that alike) is dressed in Victorian-era styles, but in more modern forms, and they’re all wearing witch’s hats.

“Excuse me, Mr. Howe, Philip Schuyler,” the man introduces himself like he should already know the name. So this is the other Philip Clinton mentioned. At no response, he continues, “and this is my wife, Catherine, and my lovely daughters.”

“Papa,” interrupts the youngest in a whine, tugging at her unfortunately traffic cone hued jacket. “I’m not your daughter.”

“Yes, of course, Cath, dear,” Schuyler dismisses the child absentmindedly. “Cath is in a nonbinary phase right now, you know how kids get…”

Philip sees Lafayette’s posture stiffen. Nothing good is going to come out of a fight between them and Schuyler. Adrienne seems to acknowledge this as well, putting a restraining hand on their shoulder. The second youngest sister, the one in yellow, takes Cath’s hand and is glaring daggers at Schuyler. He doesn't seem to notice.

“So what I was asking, Mr. Howe, is of course the question we’re all thinking. What exactly are we doing here?” Schuyler asks.

Howe raises an eyebrow.

“Pardon?”

Schuyler chuckles.

“Well… you know. There are all these rumors about the reason His Majesty invites people here. I’d like to know the real reason.”

A faint smile curls Howe’s lips.

“I'm sure you would. Trust me, Mr. Schuyler, you will be indubitably satisfied with your stay.”

With that vague answer, Howe pulls a scroll out of his waistcoat’s pocket with a flourish. He unrolls it and glances over the top at the group.

“Couples and families will be boarding together, of course. Those traveling solo will be placed with another single.”

Oh, God. Philip is going to have to share a room with someone, most likely someone he doesn't know. Best case scenario is that he gets put with Price or Alex, or even John or Hercules. At least he already knows them. He doesn't want to think about the worst case scenario.

“All rooms are the same, no special accommodations on account of species or class. Quarters are up the staircase on the right side of the room on the second floor to the fifth. As soon as you hear your name and room number, you can leave to get dressed.” With that, he cleared his throat and began. “Second floor. 2B, Philip and Catherine Van Rensselaer-Schuyler. 2C, Angelica and Elizabeth Schuyler. 2D, Margarita and Catherine Schuyler.”

The family at the front of the cluster dispersed in pairs. Catherine Van Rensselaer-Schuyler must be Schuyler’s wife. The two tallest sisters were Angelica and Elizabeth, and the two youngest were Margarita and Cath. Cath must’ve been named after her- their?- mother. Philip wondered what happened to room 2A.

“2F, George and Martha Washington. 2I, Thomas and James Jefferson-Madison and Martha Wayles. 2J, Aaron, Theodosia, and Theodosia Burr.” 

The Washingtons were a well-dressed middle-aged couple, and the Jefferson-Madisons were the two men with wings Philip had noticed earlier. Philip noted that apparently there could be three to a room, and that 2E, 2G, and 2H were all skipped. All of the people had somewhat unnatural appearances, but Philip was practically used to it by now.

“Third floor. 3A, John and Abigail Adams. 3B, John Church and Thomas Paine. 3D, Dolley Todd and Maria Cosway. 3E, Charles Lee and George Eacker. 3F, John Jay and Samuel Seabury.”

“Fourth floor. 4C, James and Maria Reynolds. 4E, Elizabeth Sanders. 4F, Benedict Arnold. 4H, John, Martha, and Frances Laurens.”

Wait. Philip blinks in surprise. John has a  _ wife _ ? Not only did Philip think he gave some pretty thinly veiled hints that he was gay, but also, he'd clearly said he didn't have any family in his life. Was he lying? Why would he do that? As the kindly mother from car 4 moved beside John, Philip is hit with another sucker punch of a realization. John isn't just married, he has a  _ kid. _

“There you are! I couldn't find you after we got off the train,” she chirps. There’s a definite feeling of exhaustion about her, between the dark circles under her eyes and the fatigue edging her voice, but a positivity at the same time. She leans up to kiss John on the cheek, and he smiles.

“How was Frances?” he asks, sending a not subtle at all warning glare at Alex, who’s gaping at him with a silent  _ what the fuck? _

“She was a bit fussy, but not too bad for her first time on a train. Could you take her, Jacky?”

John accepts the transfer of the baby from his wife’s arms to his. He looks awkward holding her, and Frances wakes up as soon and she's being held by him. She starts squirming and babbles,

“D-da! Dada!”

“One of these days, she's gonna learn how to say my name,” his wife grumbles.

“I'm sure it’ll be soon, Mattie,” John assures her.

The couple heads for the stairs. Alex opens his mouth again, but Howe cuts him off.

“Fifth floor. 5A, Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette and Adrienne Françoise de Noailles. 5E, Alexander Hamilton and Hercules Mulligan.”

Philip feels like a weight’s been lifted off his chest as he realizes that the only person left is Price. 

“Then you remaining two are in 5G,” Howe says, rolling the scroll back up and returning it to his pocket.

“Stroke of luck, huh?” Price smiles.

“Yeah, we could’ve been stuck with a total stranger- I mean, we just met but at least we’ve talked and stuff, y’know-”

Philip winces inwardly at himself. It sounded like he was implying Price and him were friends or something.  _ Great job. Now he probably thinks you’re a weirdo- _

“Well, couldn't think of a better person to be stuck with,” Price says smoothly, briefly putting his hand on Philip’s shoulder. “We should get going. There’s only so much time before it stops being fashionably late.”

_ You are surrounded by creatures that are not human in a palace in the middle of nowhere. He does not think you're a weirdo,  _ Philip reminds himself. He follows Price up the elegant staircase to the right, which turns to reveal a dark hall with similar decor to the entrance hall. Cath has plunked themself on the ground in the middle of the carpeted floor, legs stuck out in front of them childishly.

“I don't wanna sleep with you! I want to sleep with mom!” they yell.

Margarita, the one in yellow, is tugging on their arm, trying to get them upright.

“Come-  _ on  _ Cath!” she grunts. “You’re too old for this shit!”

Cath raises their voice.

“Mom! Dad!  _ Peggy swore-” _

“Shut up!” she groans.

Price grabs Philip’s arm and ushers him through the doors to the stairwell as the door closest to them opens and Schuyler steps out. Once the door is shut, Price explains,

“Philip Schuyler is a New York politician, but he's more of a celebrity then a Senator. The Schuyler family is crazy rich, and the Schuyler Sisters are somewhat of fashion icons. Consider them- ah, the Kardashians of the monster world.”

Philip raises an eyebrow, unable to force back a laugh.

“The  _ Kardashians  _ exist in this hellhole of a parallel universe or- whatever this is,” he says, gesturing vaguely.

“No they do not, fortunately. So don't mention them,” Price answers, starting up the next flight of stairs. “And I thought you lost your memory.”

“I  _ did _ ,” Philip insists, almost offended. “It’s weird, though. I still know- I don't know, basic knowledge like a normal person would have, just nothing about myself. That doesn't matter though- what's up with  _ you? _ You clearly know what's going on- you seem more or less normal-”

“Don't,” Price interjects, stopping so suddenly Philip almost runs into him. “ _ Don’t  _ say that if you know what's good for you. I  _ will _ explain, but I can't, not here, not now. Keep your head down and don't ask questions about anything that seems supernatural, okay? I'm trying to help you.”

Silence hangs in the stairwell for a moment, Philip swallowing hard.  _ You aren't safe here _ . That's the thought running through his head. He isn't safe. He can't let his guard down, not even with Price. He's staring back at him expectantly. Philip just nods. Apparently satisfied, Price turns and starts back up the stairs again. They pass a door labeled in cursive “Floor Three.” Then Floor Four, and at last Floor Five. Philip is out of breath. God, he is not in shape, is he?

The hall they enter looks practically identical to the hall on the second floor. The first door has a small sign reading “5A”, like a hotel room. 5B is boarded up like it's the zombie apocalypse, smooth wooden boards with huge metal nails bolting them to the wall on either side of the door. 5C has a metal cross attached to it, and springs of what look like lilac hanging from the ceiling above it.

“Don't disturb the salt line,” Price warns suddenly, and Philip pauses just in time to notice the semi circle of salt on the ground around it.  _ Isn’t the myth that salt wards off ghosts? _

5D is in a similar state to 5B, though with even more boards. 5E is completely normal, and 5F simply has a cursive note on the doorknob reading “do not disturb”.

“This would be ours,” Price says, stopping before 5G. “You first.”

“I can't tell if you're being a gentleman or using me as a guinea pig,” Philip says skeptically.

“Probably a little of both,” Price admits. “Go on, then.”

Philip turns the handle and opens the door cautiously, but no buckets of water fall on his head or anything, and if any ghosts haunt the room, they stay quiet. He steps inside and fumbles around the wall until he finds a light switch. It definitely does remind him of a hotel room, but it lacks the stiff impersonality. There are two beds, two desks, and two wardrobes, all antiqued but lacking wear. There's a curtain that can be drawn to divide the room, and a window covered in the red velvet curtains Philip could see covering every window from outside. There's a door leading off to the side, which turns out to be a bathroom when Price opens it.

“Pretty nice,” Philip comments.

Price shrugs noncommittally and tosses his suitcase and bag onto the bed closest to the door.

“Stayed in better, stayed in worse. We better get ready for dinner.”

Philip supposed getting ready meant putting on nicer clothes, which was going to be somewhat of an issue. His suitcase contained no clothing but sweatshirts, t-shirts, jeans, and underclothes. None seemed fit for a dinner at a place like this.

“I don't think I really have anything fitting to wear,” he confesses, heaving his suitcase onto the other bed. “Just sweatshirts and jeans.”

“Hm. You could borrow something from me…?” Price trails off as they make eye contact and exchange a nonverbal  _ yeah, that's not gonna work _ . Price is tall, Philip is not. Price is thin as a rail, Philip is admittedly not. As for as Philip can tell, Price’s body shape is definitely male, and Philip’s is… not.

“Never mind. My shirts would reach your knees,” Price decides.

“I'm not  _ that  _ much shorter than you,” Philip protests.

“Be me for a day, then complain about how short you are,” snorts a smooth, accented voice.

Philip and Price both turn towards the source, startled. There’s a person standing in front of the door that was  _ definitely  _ not there before, and there were no sounds of someone entering. The person chuckles.

“Sorry to startle you. John André, at your service,” he introduces himself.

André is, indeed, exceedingly short. Philip would be surprised if he hits the five foot mark. He’s- wow, okay, he’s  _ stunningly _ \- Philip wouldn't even say handsome. He's beautiful. His dark skin is smooth and flawless, his features delicate, and big, soulful eyes an unnatural shade of blue, like blue raspberry candy. His short dreadlocks are the same bubblegum pink as the massive butterfly wings that are fluttering on his back. He wears the same red uniform as Clinton and Howe.

“Take it in all you want, boys,” he says dryly, placing a hand on his hip. “I'll wait until you get your voice back.”

Philip tears his gaze away, feeling heat rise to his face. He hears Price stammer out an apology the same time he does. André laughs.

“No problem at all. I'm used to it. Now, I heard we had an issue with proper dinner attire?”

“Uh, yeah I-” Philip starts, but André silences him with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Say no more,” he says, crossing to the wardrobe in front of Philip’s bed. He opens the door, revealing half a dozen outfits hanging inside. Philip opens his mouth to say something, but André continues before he does. “Don't bother to thank me. After all, it was just as much the lovely Ms. Shippen’s work.”

He strolls back towards the door.

“Now do hurry- your friend here is right, you know. Fashionably late can only take you so far.”

With that, he was gone as quickly as he came. Philip coughs.

“Well, he was-”

“I hate him already,” Price declares, draping something he pulled from his suitcase over his arm. “I'm changing in the bathroom.”

Once he was gone, Philip walked over to the wardrobe. All six of the outfits were somewhat fancy and seemed exactly tailored to his measurements. He chose a pale purple suit which was a bit old-fashioned, but then again, what wasn't around here? It’d been awhile and his chest felt fine, so he figured he could bind again. He changes quickly and has just finishing tying and tucking the black tie into his suit jacket when Price emerges from the bathroom, looking sharp.

“Close the curtain next time,” Price advises him. “I could've barged in on you changing.”

He's right, of course. Instead of trying to actually murder himself with that mental image, Philip quickly notes,

“You didn't tie your tie.”

Price sighs, crossing his arms.

“I forgot how.”

“Seriously?” Philip giggles.

“It's been a long time, okay?” he protests.

“Want me to do it?” Philip offers before he can really think about it.

“That... would be lovely,” Price answers.

Is he smirking? When is he  _ not  _ smirking? It seriously throws Philip off, like there’s always some kind of joke going on that no one’s in on but Price. Philip decides to ignore it, crossing the room and planting himself in front of Price. The top of his head comes about level to Price’s chin, so he doesn’t even have to look down to be on the tie’s level. He takes an end of the tie in each hand, then pauses.

“Hang on, let’s move over to the mirror so you can see what I’m doing so you can do it yourself next time,” he says.

“Next time?” Price questions, heading over to his wardrobe and opening it to reveal the mirror. Philip saw clothing similar to the outfits in his hanging inside.

“You’re going to have to wear a tie again sometime in life, most likely,” Philip points out. “I won’t be there to do it for you.”

“What a shame,” Price says wryly.

_ Is he hitting on me? _

“It’s really not that hard. You just-” Philip crosses the wider part of the tie over the thinner part. “Cross it like this, then pull it in like this-” He moves his hands accordingly. “And then you pull it to one side, and then the other-” It’s pure muscle memory. Philip actually has to think harder to do it at a slower pace for Price then to just speed through it. “Then you pull it up and to the sides again-” It’s somewhat comforting to know that whatever background Philip comes from, it’s one where he’d worn ties enough to know how to tie one easily. “Then over and tuck it through and-  _ voila. _ ”

“Where’d you learn that? Boy Scouts?” Price asks, an eyebrow cocked.

“I’m not sure whether I’m more offended that you’re implying I was a boy scout or about the fact that you’re asking the amnesiac where they learned something,” Philip replies, crossing his arms but laughing all the same.

“How am I supposed to know what you remember? I mean, you remember the Kardashians.”

“I  _ told  _ you, it’s like-” Philip stops short after Price snickers. “You know, I could’ve strangled you with that tie.”

“Terrible decision. My corpse would totally clash with the decor,” Price grins. He opens the door, and Philip hears someone talking from the hall- Alex, of course. It’s like silence personally offends him. “Shall we?”

Philip considers the situation; a formal dinner party with dozens of supernatural creatures, including celebrities of the monster world, hosted by two mysterious figures who had yet to be identified by anything but “the King and Queen.” He considers the option of hiding out in the room for the evening, and most likely getting dragged downstairs by Henry “I don’t get paid enough for this shit” Clinton. Considers Price’s smirk like a challenge.

“Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Spazzatura: ur looking up how to tie a tie rn aren't you Me: *hastily closing tabs* NO)  
> Okay, first of all, I'm awful. I know. It's been two and a half weeks. I could blame homework, but tbh it was just a mixture of writer's block and my very, VERY slow writing pace. I'll try and update more quickly, but I can't promise anything. The chapters will be getting shorter now that the exposition piece is mainly done though, so that'll help.  
> Second of all, I'm going to update the tags as I go, and I changed the rating bc mature fits this fic much more. I'll add warnings at the top of chapters that have extreme content, but I'm warning you right now that if character death, sexual references, and/or violence isn't your thing this probably isn't the best fic for you.
> 
> Now notes about the actual chapter! Clinton, Howe, and Andre are all historical redcoats, if you didn't know, and Clinton and Howe absolutely HATED each other. It was kind of amusing tbh. Also, you might remember Howe from Right Hand Man. (British General Howe's got troops on the water... that's him.)  
> Philip's gonna be pretty different in this compared to the musical. I don't really have an explanation. This is just how I characterize him.
> 
> If you notice any errors at all, tell me! Any and all comments are so appreciated. I die a little every time I see a new one.
> 
> One last thing! Check out my friend SpazzaturaXIII. She's great, and if you're enjoying this, her fic Vicissitude is probably right up your alley.
> 
> Thanks for listening to my rambling, and see you next update!


	3. In Which Jay Gets a Little Choked Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter prompted Spazzatura to write Philip x Pasta smut

_Stairwell, 6:05 PM EST_

Two flights of stairs down, the door marked _Floor Three_ creaks open and the angel from Car 4 shuffles out, hugging his arms like he’s cold, despite the comfortable warmth of the palace.

“Hey, Seabury, right?” Price says.

He looks surprised to be addressed, lifting his head and brushing copper red bangs away from his face.

“Uh… y-yeah. You-” he paused, like he needs to collect his thoughts before speaking. “You can call me Sam. Um. If you want.”

Price smiles- warm and relaxed, where’d his smirk go?

“Will do. I’m guessing the third floor is as nice as the fifth?”

Sam shakes his head.

“N-no- look,” he urges them, opening the door wide.

Philip glances in. The third floor looks virtually looks the same as theirs, but after half a dozen or so rooms a huge barricade of uneven boards cuts of the rest of the hall. Golden light leaks through gaps in the conglomeration.

“Jay said it looks like a death glow,” Sam says, brows furrowed.

“Jay?” Philip asks.

“The skinwalker… w-with the-?” Sam makes a gesture to his face, indicating glasses.

“Oh,” Philip and Price chorus in realization.

Sam closes the door, frowning.

“I just can’t h-help but have a bad feeling about this place,” he mutters. “Oh, well.”

He shuts his eyes for a moment as he crosses himself, then continues down the stairs, wings pressed against his spine. Once he seems safely out of earshot, Philip mutters,

“Is he… like, an actual angel?”

“Why wouldn’t he be?” Price responds, starting down the stairs again.

The second floor door is open but the hall is deserted. At the door that leads to the stairway out in the entry hall, two phantom figures stand, the pattern of the wallpaper behind them showing through their bodies. One is a thin, forlorn figure with black liquid dripping down from their forehead, which looks unsettlingly like blood in a black and white movie. The other man is more brightly colored than his counterpart, revealing squinty blue eyes and the traces of what might’ve once been blonde hair on his balding head. Philip doesn’t have time to question their presence before Price opens the door and a woman’s shouting reaches him.

“-The amount of _disrespect_ \- I mean honestly, I was prepared for lots of things, but such blatant necrophobia from a place like this! Your boss calls himself royalty- he doesn’t deserve a title like that if he’s supporting something like this-”

From the stairs, Philip has an aerial view of the scenario playing out. A woman in a headscarf with tiny, grey wings hovering on either side of her head is pointing at Clinton accusingly, the sorcerer seeming rather unfazed despite her anger. The other guests are broken off in clumps scattered around the room, muttering amongst themselves. As Philip watches, Howe emerges from the door at the top of the opposite staircase, scowling.

“What’s going on here?”

The woman gestures to the table.

“Salt shaker on the table! Completely opened! You _knew_ there would be ghosts amongst the guests, to overlook something like this-”

“-Is completely inexcusable,” Howe finishes for her. “I apologize sincerely for the blunder of my coworker.”

He snaps his finger and a teenage boy scrambles out from one of the doors at the back of the room. He’s tall and broad chested, but there’s a youthful look to his face and a near cowering quality to his posture. He wears a uniform similar to the other workers’, but it's a deep rust red, almost brown. As he retrieves the aforementioned salt shaker from the table, Howe takes Clinton aside. The two of them converse in hushed voices for a minute, then Clinton’s raises as he visibly gets more pissed.

“-You get to boss me around like this, maybe you’d be the one getting fucked over if I resigned myself to the methods of rank climbing you-”

Howe slaps Clinton. Short, clean blow across the face. Clinton staggers a bit, the places where Howe’s skin met his blistering like he's been burned. There’s a long beat before he seems to realize he stepped out of line, bowing his head respectfully. He leaves through the same back door the teenage boy does. Howe turns to the group, smiling thinly.

“Again, most sincere apologies, Ms. Adams,” he addresses the woman.

“Mrs.,” she mutters.

Price and Philip descend the stairs like they’re emerging from a bomb shelter. Philip makes a mental note not to cross Mrs. Adams. Or Howe. In fact, avoiding opposition with anyone here sounds like a wise decision. The only people he could maybe take would be Cath or Sam, but why the hell would he want to? A preteen child and the soft-spoken angel seemed like the least likely candidates for trouble. Mrs. Adams passes them on the stairs, heading up.

“Identification charms will be handed out. Wearing them is mandatory for the convenience of your fellow guests as well as the staff,” Howe says.

A murmur buzzed around the room throughout the guests, which Philip would maybe understand better if he had the faintest idea what an identification charm was. Mrs. Adams returned down the stairs, clinging to the arm of the stout ghost from upstairs. The taller ghost drifted behind them.

“I’m just saying, Abi, you have to be careful with sorcerers-” the ghost sighs at the base of the stairs, just loud enough that Philip is in earshot.

“ _You’re_ a sorcerer,” Mrs. Adams argues.

“Not anymore.”

“John…”

Philip turns his attention from their conversation as a girl approaches him, barely up to his shoulder. She looks like she could be fourteen, and that paired with the same rust-colored uniform as the boy and the mute way she approaches him gives him an uncomfortable feeling. She holds out a tray covered in what looks like metal rods a few inches long. Price takes one and Philip follows his example.

“Thank you,” he says, purely because it’s polite.

Price looks alarmed, and the man with Mrs. Adams- Mr. Adams, he’d assume-  shoots him a weird look. The girl stares at him through a curtain of curly hair. Philip swallows. How on Earth- or wherever this hellhole was- did he fuck up now?

Price pulls him tight against his side, muttering in his ear so quietly no one else could hear-

“You don’t address the slave unless you own it.”

“The-”

“ _Sh!”_

“The slave?” Philip questions, scandalized, though he has the sense to lower his voice this time.  “ _It?_ ”

“That’s not what I-” Price runs a hand through his hair anxiously. “Look, I’ll explain later-”

“Oh, really, now, or are you just gonna give you more vague cryptic bullshi- _what the-”_

The rod in Price’s hand suddenly _moves_ , twisting itself around his wrist. Price looks down in surprise, holding out his wrist. The rod isn’t a rod at all, it’s a metallic _snake_. There’s a tiny, intricate head on each end, which have locked jaws, clasping the body around Price’s thin wrist. Their gemstone eyes glow a smoky grey. Across the room, exclamations of surprise pop up as others’ snakes spring to life. Phillip stares at the one in his hand, wondering if he should drop it, but it remains inanimate in his palm.

“No need to be alarmed,” Howe says breezily. “The charms are Frederick family heirlooms. You’re most likely used to the more modern designs, but traditionally they were shaped as snakes for a multitude of reasons-

“-The most prevalent being the traditional symbolism of the snake representing infinity, since the bracelets weren’t supposed to come off due to the morally questionable reason they were invented,” finishes the eldest Schuyler sister, the one in pink. Philip notices that even her eyes are a shade of the color. She holds up her wrist and says dryly, “But I suppose that since this is for our ‘convenience’, and not our imprisonment or sexual enslavement like it was for the original wearers, we shouldn’t worry?”

“Angie,” hisses Schuyler, but Howe simply meets her with a cold smile.

“Precisely.”

As the word leaves his mouth, Philip feels a sudden movement in his palm. He shudders as the snake slithers along his skin, loping itself around his wrist. The two heads open their jaws and snap them together, simultaneously causing the bracelet to be closed and the eyes to light up a dusty shade of violet. Same as his suit. When he looks up, he understands why it’s called an identification charm. When he glances at someone, information just comes to mind. It’s strange; he doesn’t notice at first that he’s learned anything until he questions how he knows that the taller ghost’s name is John Barker Church, or that Sam uses any pronouns, or that you shouldn’t call John Jack unless you’re a family member. It feels seamless and natural, like he’d known the people for awhile. He realizes that the other people can probably see the same information about him.

“Dinner will begin in just a moment,” Howe announces, heading towards the door in the back. “Feel free to mingle.”

“I’m not feeling this,” Price mutters, examining his bracelet. “It’s convenient, yes, and very high quality, but we can’t take it off.”

“What’s wrong with them? Angelica-” the name of the eldest Schuyler sister, he finds- “said something about what they were invented for.”

Price pulls sleeve over his bracelet. After a moment, he answers quietly,

“Lower-class prisoners of war. Prostitutes. Humans.”

“What do you-”

“Hey, guys, you’ll never guess who’s here!” interjects Alex, seeming oblivious to the serious tone of their conversation. “The Washingtons. We’re at dinner with the Washingtons. George Washington was like, my idol as a kid. Well, I say as a kid- anyway, I know he’s such an advocate against classism and everything, but I still don’t feel like I could approach him- I mean, he’s a wealthy sorcerer- and I'm, ah-” Alex tugs at one of his fin-ear-things. “Me. But that’s kind of the whole point of his campaign- Am I rambling? I've been told I ramble.”

“Just a bit,” Price assures him.

“Hah.”

“Ladies and gents, please be seated,” Howe’s voice calls out as he pops back out from the door.

The mass of people all move at one to find seats at the long table. Philip goes to sit in one seat, Price close behind, but someone sits there instead, the man with the strange glasses. Philip ends up sitting with Price on one side and him on the other. A skinwalker, Sam called him. Sounds like the title of a cheesy zombie movie. He shouldn’t say that, though. Here, that’s probably culturally insensitive. His name is John Jay (hah) and he looks fairly normal, aside from the film covering his eyes. Philip wonders if that’s what the glasses are for.

“So, esteemed guests, you thirty-seven are among fifty invitees. There are various reasons the other thirteen may have neglected to board the train. There are many dark rumors surrounding the subject of His Majesty and his motive for taking in you lovely guests every year. Considering the secrecy and absence of the former partakers, it’s understandable.”

Philip waits for a “but”. Instead there’s just a disconcerting silence.

“As I am just a lowly servant to His Majesty, I’m afraid I can’t give you the explanation you must seek. His Majesty will be present tomorrow morning, hopefully-” for a moment, Philip sees something almost like irritation in his expression, “-and he himself will be able to answer your questions. As for now, please just enjoy your dinner.”

With that, Howe claps twice, and people wearing bright red uniforms stream in a line from the door in the back. There’s maybe a dozen or so people, and almost all of them are tall, intimidating men. There’s one woman among the bunch, and she’s no less intimidating than the men, but also strikingly attractive. Philip knows better than to question her horns, wings, and tail by now. Almost all the workers are insanely tall, with one Philip recognizes as the exception. André sticks out like a sore thumb among the others with his diminutive stature, and suddenly his complaint earlier makes a little more sense. The workers split to serve both sides of the table. Food that looks like it’s been taken straight from the kitchens of a gourmet restaurant is placed along the table from end to end. Philip would be ecstatic if he was actually hungry. Apparently, the supernatural had a tendency to kill his appetite.

“Ah, Freckles, fancy meeting you here,” André grins, standing behind his chair. “Your suit looks lovely. Lilac is so your color.”

Philip tries to stop the blush rising to his face. Before he can stammer out a reply, André holds out the liquor bottle and asks,

“Champagne?”

Well, Philip knows he isn’t old enough to drink, but what the hell. These people are European, anyway.

“Sure.”

The fizzy liquid splashes into his glass, light from the chandeliers making it sparkle... silver. Wasn’t champagne typically gold? A light kick from Price under the table tells him not to question it.

“Thanks,” he tells André. André salutes with his free hand and moves on to cater to the other guests.

“Hi- uh, I’d introduce myself, but-” Jay holds up his wrist. “-That’s kind of already been done.”

Philip laughs.

“Nice to meet you anyway.”

“Yeah, same- oop-” A blue feather flutters out of his sleeve. He brushes the feather off the table, and must’ve caught Philip staring because he blushes. “Uh, sorry?”

“N-no, it’s not you, I just-” Philip hesitates. “I’ve never met a skinwalker before, that’s all.”

He panics for a second internally, half-expecting Price to yell at him for being ignorant, but he just adopts a mildly interested expression.

“Oh, I see,” Jay says, and to Philip’s relief he doesn’t look like he said anything out of the ordinary.

Philip picks up his glass and tries a sip. It hits his tongue cold and carbonated, and it’s sweeter than he expected.

“I know there’s barely any skinwalkers out by the west coast- I mean, if that’s where you’re from,” Jay commented.

Price nodded ever so slightly on Philip’s right.

“Yeah, I am,” Philip straight up lies. Well, he might not be. He could be telling the truth for all he knows. He wonders why Jay assumes that he’s from the west coast, out of all places. He dares not ask out of fear of raising any red flags.

“That’s cool,” Jay comments.

Price elbows him.

“Yo, Philip, I’m not gonna judge your dietary habits, but all you had for lunch was a sandwich. You should probably get something more in your system than alcohol,” he pointed out.

“I _was_ gonna,” Philip protests. Price is right. He’s not going to feel any better on a dinner consisting of a few sips of champagne. He takes some fancy looking bread- would it be stereotypical to assume it was French? At Price’s disapproving look, he also spoons some pasta onto his plate. He turns towards Price, head down, and mutters, the chatter of the dining table covering his words,

“I just… everything that’s happened is so much to take in, and-”

“I know,” Price returns in a surprisingly soothing tone. His hand rests briefly on Philip’s knee under the table. “But you’re not going to solve anything by not eating.”

Philip swallows, then nods. He sits back in a normal position, and smiles at Jay, hoping he looks casual. Jay doesn’t seem to have noticed anything.

“So, how do you two know each other?” Jay asks.

“We just met on the train, actually,” Price chuckled.

“Really? Gosh, you guys seem like you’ve been friends for years,” Jay comments.

 _Because he’s the only person I can trust in this damn place. Because he actually knows that something is wrong here. Because he’s human like me._ He doesn’t know why the last one sounds so defiant. Like he’s clinging to his humanity. Like he’s desperate to prove to himself he’s normal. Sure, Jay seems nice. He can’t help but like Alex, and Lafayette and Adrienne are thoroughly entertaining. Hercules, as quiet as he is, seems okay, and even John is tolerable. But there’s something screaming that he shouldn’t- he _can’t_ \- allow himself to be part of these people. He can’t relax. As that fresh wave of paranoia hits, he sinks back in his chair a bit. His hands go to move to their position in his sweatshirt pocket, forgetting he’s wearing a suit. He settles for wringing them in his lap, as Price and Jay converse around him.

He ends up focusing on the person across from him, the pregnant women from Car Four. He finally has her name. Maria. She’s sitting silently, still as stone. Staring behind him, unblinking. There’s a terrible feeling growing in his gut that there’s something behind him, something _right behind him_ \- he gives in and turns. He sees that all of the staff are standing at precise intervals along the walls, hands behind their backs, posture uniform. For a terrifying moment, Philip thinks they’re staring at him, but he realizes that their glassy stares are a bit off from him. He turns back to the table to try and find what- or who- they’re looking at. Instead, he witnesses Maria standing mutely, gaze fixed on the same point. She remains standing for a few seconds, enough for every eye at the table to be fixed on her quizzically. Philip sees her chest dip as she takes a deep breath.

Then she screams.

It sounds like nails on chalkboard; a wail that’s reached such shrillness that it freezes Philip to his seat. His hands fly to cover his ears. It’s not even particularly loud, it’s just gut-wrenching. It’s the kind of scream he would expect from a mother who just lost their child, or something terrible like that. The only person at the table who seems unaffected is Reynolds. He gets to his feet immediately, pulling out a gun from his jacket.

“Which one of you fuckers-” he starts, pointing the gun at no one in specific threateningly.

Maria suddenly goes quiet, and so it seems does the rest of the word. White smoke curls from her mouth, like she’s a cannon that’s just gone off. Then Philip hears it: the sound of someone choking. Maria raises an arm and silently points to the seat next to him.

Jay has his hands at his throat. His eyes are bulging, and there’s a thick, smooth, golden substance escaping his mouth every time he hacks. No one moves. Seconds pass. Maybe a minute. Jay’s colorless eyes dart around the room as he writhes, begging. No one moves.

He drops limply onto the table, hands still clawing at his throat. Maria adjusts her skirt and sits.

“Oh my god,” someone says.

Someone else bolts over to where Jay is lying in a pool of the golden substance. He’s inches away from Philip. Philip can smell the nauseating stench of blood. He’s going to be sick if he doesn’t get away from his body. His _body_.

“Shit,” he gasps, his voice breaking as he staggers away from the table, leaning against the wall with his head in his hands.

The person who rushed over- the second Schuyler sister, Eliza- she’s frantically muttering something, and Philip recognizes Adrienne’s accent interjecting. As more people start to speak, their voices blend together in a kaleidoscope of _too loud._ He’s going to pass out, he’s going to be sick, his head is pounding- no, no, no, _no no no no n-_

He comes to a few moments later, someone holding him up from the back of his collar. Little black spots still dance around the edges of his vision, but he’s conscious enough to pull away from whoever’s holding him up. Candy blue eyes meet his with a new coldness to them. Philip’s lips part, a silent question at André when he doesn’t even know what he’s asking.

“Poison in the cup,” Abigail announces flatly, the little wings against her head flapping frantically. “Something real strong.”

“Is there anything…?” Sam questions, his tone shrill.

“Nothing,” Eliza says through gritted teeth. She wipes away tears. “I just sat there! If I’d-”

“You can’t take responsibility for every life, Eliza,” Angelica murmurs, placing both of her hands around one of Eliza’s comfortingly. “We were all in shock…”

A sound invades the quiet, a sound that feels so _wrong_ in such a sober environment that Philip almost can’t comprehend it. Someone is laughing.

“What the hell, dude?” John yells at Paine, who’s standing off to the side _giggling_.

Paine drags a hand down their face exasperatedly.

“Not a _dude-_ ”

“You did this, then?” Reynolds accuses them, pointing his gun.

Paine doesn’t seem the least bit concerned.

“As a matter of fact, I did not. Oh, I wish I did, though, holy _shit…”_

They break off in another peal of laughter.

“How can you say that?” Dolley says, horrified.

“Mr. Howe, you better have a _goddamn_ explanation for this,” the older Theodosia snaps.

Aaron touches her arm.

“Theodosia, please-”

“I’m worried about our family’s safety, Aaron, I’m worried for our _daughter’s_ safety!” Theodosia yells.

She turns towards Howe, her thick dreadlocks fanning out around her as she whips around.

“You’re in charge here! Do something!” she orders him.

Howe raises a thin brow.

“I’m never in _charge_. I’m simply relaying His Majesty’s wishes-”

“His Majesty this! His Majesty that! You own up to your own responsibilities-”

“I can’t do anything, ma’am, I’m simply following orders-”

“From a king who hasn’t even bothered to show his face!” Maria Cosway snaps from her tank. “Someone’s dead and you’re still following fucking orders?”

“I’m not at fault here,” Howe snarls, flames flaring up behind him. “I didn’t _touch_ that cup-”

“Can we all calm down, please, this isn’t solving anything,” Church tries.

“He’s right,” Angelica agrees. “We’ve gotta keep our heads-”

“The dishes and cups and everything weren’t set up when we came in, and we would’ve seen if one of us put the poison in the glass when we were all back downstairs. It had to be poisoned when the cups were being set out,” Patsy reasons, paranoia edging her tone.

“So it had to be one of you, or the slaves in the kitchen,” Thomas concludes, glaring at the staff.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” James Madison says firmly.

“No, he’s right,” Lee says shrilly. “We’re getting murdered.”

Multiple people start talking at once, and little Frances starts crying, her tiny face screwing up as she wails. Her panicked mother is trying to simultaneously shush her and get John to stop yelling at Howe, who is regarding the whole scenario with a look of distaste. Philip’s head is still spinning, and he wants to sit down again, but there’s no way he’s going anywhere near Jay’s body. A gunshot goes off- Reynolds fires into the air, skimming of the ornate chandeliers, and the sound of breaking glass adds to screams.

“My, my, what _ever_ is this excitement about?”

The room seems to freeze at the voice echoing the room. There’s a chilling quality about it that makes Philip uncomfortable in a way he doesn’t understand. He glances around the room trying to find a source for the voice, but no one new is visible. The strange voice laughs gleefully.

“I’m not actually _there-_ no need to look so startled.”

“What the f-fu-” Laurens stammers, clutching Frances in his arms. Mattie must’ve transferred her to him.

“Goodness, such harsh language, Mr. Laurens,” the voice said, having adopted a mock offended tone. The baritone voice was pleasant but quirky, almost comical with its extreme British accent. Somehow, it was still terrifying. “You should really be on your best manners when addressing royalty, hm?”

Royalty? Meaning this was-

“I am King George William Friedrich the Third, though the proper title when addressing me is Your Majesty. It’s simply lovely to see you here, though I confess I’m a tad bit disappointed about this year’s turnout. I know you may be a bit frightened at the moment, but I assure you the situation is under control. I ask you at this time to report back to the assigned rooms- _your_ assigned rooms. Sorry to ruin your fun for this first night- unless, of course, you and your roommate want to take advantage of the time together, in which case, I have no intention of stopping you.”

The King laughs. No one else does.

“Anyway, off you go. Poor Mr. Jay’s body will be properly disposed of. This hall at seven sharp tomorrow morning for the rules, hm? Enjoy your stay at my palace, and sweet dreams!”

Is this a joke? It’s the flimsiest excuse in the book, and it makes no logical sense, but Philip is having a hard time of wrapping his head around this. Someone is _dead_ . Forget the whole amnesia thing. Forget the whole magic thing. Forget the weird class stuff, forget the palace in the middle of nowhere thing. _Someone is dead._ He feels sick. And yet… there’s nothing he can really do but accept it. Nothing he can really do but follow Price wordlessly back upstairs. One of the women is engaged in another shouting match with Howe, but he doesn’t pay any attention to her. He feels detached from what’s going on- his legs are moving, but it’s like they’re not his.

Up the four flights of stairs, down the hall, into the room. It’s only when the door clicks shut when he can speak again. He grabs Price by the collar.

“You better start _fucking explaining_ ,” he demands, his voice so shrill that he would wince at the femininity if he didn’t have more important things to worry about. “Tell me what’s g-going on or I- I’ll…”

He doesn’t even know what he’s threatening, and he knows he’s being ridiculous. Price could easily take him. But he’s so fed up with not getting answers. Price’s expression is calm.

“I’m going to explain,” he assures him. “But you need to calm down.”

Philip lets go of Price’s collar, and staggers backwards to a sitting position on the bed closest to the door. He can’t remember if it’s his or Price’s. He slumps with his head in his hands. Breathe. _Breathe_. He feels the mattress give a little as Price sits beside him. He places a hand comfortingly on Philip’s back. After a moment, Philip straightens, still terrified, but a little less overwhelmed.

“You okay?” Price asks gingerly.

Philip nods. Price reaches into his suit pocket and produces a cigarette and lighter.

“Do you mind?” he asks apologetically.

Philip shakes his head mutely. He has a feeling he would normally.

Price lights the cigarette and brings it to his lips. The smell of smoke fills the room. Price removes the cigarette and smiles thinly.

“It’s such a nasty habit, I know,” he sighs. “I’ve gotta kick it, but…”

He shrugs and takes another drag.

“Explanation,” Philip prompts him.

“Right.”

Price takes one last drag and snuffs out the cigarette on the pillowcase, leaving a nice little burn mark on the fabric. The staff will be pleased. Price tosses it in the trash and returns the lighter to his pocket.

“What do you want explained?”

“Uh, everything? Whatever the hell just happened, for starters? Who poisoned Jay?” Philip snaps. “Why was Jay’s blood gold?”

It’s such an arbitrary thing to ask out of all the shit that’s happened, but it seems like a good place to start. Price’s brow furrows.

“What color would it be otherwise?” he asks slowly.

“Red? Like a normal-” Philip stops abruptly at Price’s frantic head shaking.

“Don’t say that,” he warns.

“Why? Why don’t you tell me why, for once?” Philip gripes.

Price sighs, running a hand through his hair. It seems to be a nervous habit of his.

“You and I…” he starts hesitantly. “We’re different. We’re not from here. We’re human.”

“No _shit_.”

“This is serious, Philip,” he says. Philip searches his gaunt expression for a hint of his usual lazily charismatic persona and finds nothing. “Humans here are killed or sold into slavery. The servants in the dark red uniforms? All humans. The uniforms are supposed to be a mark of their inadequacy. Our blood color is shame. Those with ichor, or golden blood, will always be above us. Even brownies like Hercules, the lowest of the gold-blooded. Which is why you can’t ever let anyone know you’re human, okay?”

Philip takes a minute to process the information.

“Y-yeah. But the other staff wears red too-”

“That’s different. Bright red is a royal color. They’re showing off their status by wearing it.”

“Oh.” A beat. “How can people not tell we’re human?”

“There are ways. I tend to act as a siren who chose land. _You_ are going to have to masquerade as a selkie. Selkies look completely indistinguishable from humans. Jay- God rest his soul- assumed you were from the west coast because that’s where almost all selkies live. The only ways anyone would be able to confirm you’re not is if they see your blood color, or if they see you touch water. You can’t let anyone see you touch water with bare skin.”

“Why not?”

“Selkies instantly turn to seals when they touch water.”

“Okay then,” Philip blinks. “Sounds inconvenient.”

“Yes and no. But you do understand the severity of this, right?” Price pressed.

“ _Yes_ ,” Philip assures him. “I do.”

Price seems to relax a bit.

“And as for your other question… I have no idea,” he admits. “It could’ve been anyone. Patsy and Thomas seemed convinced it couldn’t be one of us, but I disagree. I think someone totally could’ve slipped something in the cup during all the drama that happened before dinner.”

“That makes sense,” Philip agrees.

“The thing I don’t get,” Price frowns, “is that there wasn’t set places. There was no way to know who was going to sit where. Whoever poisoned the cup had no idea who was going to die.”

Philip’s mouth is suddenly dry. His heart starts hammering in his chest. He’s on his feet before he realizes it, leaning against one of the bed’s posts.

“Philip?” Price questions. “Philip, speak to me. What’s wrong?”

“I was going to sit in that seat,” Philip says, his voice trembling. “Holy _shit_ , that could’ve been me.”

He sinks back onto the bed, arms wrapped around himself tightly.

“Oh my God, I could’ve _died!_ ”

Price’s hand resumes its comforting position on Philip’s back.

“But you didn’t.”

“I was seconds away- if Jay hadn’t- oh my _God_ ,” he whispers.

He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep, shuddering breath. He feels like he can’t get any air into his lungs. He opens his eyes and looks at Price.

“You okay?”

“Fuck no,” Philip laughs, hysteria edging his tone. “It was almost me.”

“I know.”

“I would be dead.”

“I know.”

The quiet drags on, and Philip is starting to realize how tired he is, despite all the sleep he got on the train. It’s been an emotionally draining day, certainly. But he can’t trust himself to close his eyes without seeing Jay’s panic-stricken face moments before his death.

“I just want to sleep, but I know I won’t be able to,” Philip tells him.

Price perks up.

“Hey, I know something that can help you with that,” he says, a little too eager for Philip’s liking. He looks at him suspiciously.

“What?”

“It’s something I learned from an actual land dwelling siren,” he smirks. “Go get ready for bed and stuff in the bathroom first.”  
Philip is still wary, but Price is the only person he really trusts here, so he obeys anyway. He takes his suitcase in with him, changing into the one pair of pyjamas he has. Luckily, there is a toiletry bag in his suitcase, so he can brush his teeth. When he returns to the main room, he finds Price testing a feathered quill on a piece of paper. He looks up when he enters.

“This is going to be a simple sleep rune,” he explains. “Out as soon as your head hits the pillow, dreamless sleep for at least six hours.”

“You can do magic?” Philip asks incredulously.

Price shrugs.

“Just a bit. Hold out your arm.”

Philip hesitates for a moment, then complies. Price rolls up his sleeve and takes the quill to his forearm. The feeling of the point gliding smoothly across his skin is weirdly therapeutic. Price draws some kind of symbol, a straight line with a looped end and three small horizontal dashes across it. Price takes his own suit sleeve and presses the fabric against the symbol, setting it in or something, Philip guesses. He can see faint ink marks on his sleeve as he pulls away. Price seems to have a penchant for vandalization.

“You should probably get to bed. It can sometimes act as soon as ten seconds after, depending on the mental strength of the person,” Price says.

As he speaks, Philip can already feel drowsiness weighing him down. He has enough energy to mumble a “thanks” to Price and get to his own bed. In less than Price’s estimated ten seconds, he’s passed out on top of his covers.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry again for the long wait. Damn writer's block.  
> So we've got one down, a million to go (I'm so regretting using this many characters). Poor John Jay. Maybe if he wrote more Federalist papers he would actually be relevant enough for me to keep him alive past the third chapter.  
> I hope you all are enjoying! Kudos are absolutely appreciated, but comments are the most fantastic thing! There's nothing more rewarding to a fic author than comments, so please tell me what you thought and voice any questions/concerns you have!  
> See you all next time!


	4. In Which Philip Gets a Magical Sex Ed Lesson

Floor Three Guests’ Quarters Hall, 2:40 AM

Sam had never been good at following rules, which was tragically ironic.

Maybe that’s why he accepted the train ticket with his name printed on it in king red calligraphy that fluttered into his hands on the breeze like it was a living being. He left for the train in the dead of the night, but he could still feel the glares from the others in the dark. Still feel the breath from their disapproving sighs on his neck. There was the wild part of him that thought this would be freedom. And yet… he felt sin like it was rotting him from the inside out. He stood in the room’s doorway, not sure what he was waiting for. The room was empty. His roommate was dead. Maybe it was because of him. 

_ Filthy creature. Good as corrupt. Maybe Purgatory drained you because it wasn’t Hell where you belonged. Even now you let your cowardice stop you from worship. _

He steps into the hall. No alarms go off, no guards come rushing to pin him down. The floor is cold beneath his bare feet. He never wears shoes, nor anything really besides his robes and the cross around his neck that always rests against the bare skin of his flesh. Sometimes he half expects it to burn. 

All of the rooms to the right are guest rooms, so the doors to the left must lead somewhere else. By the light of his halo and whatever’s glowing beyond the mess of boards- he sincerely hopes it isn’t the corpse of a sorcerer- he crosses the hall to one and opens it hesitantly. There’s another hallway beyond it. He commits the door to memory, realizing how easily he could get lost in a place like this. All the hallways look the same, too- faded red patterned wallpaper, gold embellishments along the ceilings, platinum hued floors with diamonds of void at intervals. They could just be black stone, but there’s a ripple of movement every so often that makes Sam think it might be glass above water. The thought of dark waters running under the floor beneath his feet makes him shudder.

The nearest door on the other side of the hall leads to a library. It’s beautiful, with high arched ceilings and books along every wall. Sam would have to explore it some other time, but there’s only one book on his mind right now. He shuts the door softly, but still winces at the slight noise it creates.  _ Why do you fear earthly beings? Why do you fear anything but your Lord? Do you think He won’t protect you? _

Sam hears footsteps like one might hear gunfire, sending a bolt of fear down his spine. He freezes like a marble statue, probably as picturesque as one with the dark glow of the water beneath him reflecting off his ivory skin. The other angels would comment on his beauty from time to time, but it was more of an expression of disgust than admiration. He doesn’t breathe until the footsteps fade out, and stays still for a little longer, until he can actually feel his lungs burning. He gasps for air somehow reluctantly.  _ No, I  _ know  _ He won’t protect me. _

He continues his walk, forbidding himself from getting sidetracked again. He finds another stairway down and descends until he can’t descend any further and decides that this must be the ground floor. He enters and finds himself in a tearoom, with round white tables with gold trim scattered around the cozy area. A kettle sits on each table, steam curling pleasantly from their spouts. They’re probably enchanted to stay perpetually heated, but it just gives Sam the eerie sense that they were waiting for him. The walls are covered in a pastel mural of a flower garden. The whole room gives him the creeps. It takes the full capacity of his limited self control not to sprint across to the door on the other side.

He finds himself in another corridor, and he can feel the pull stronger now. He’s drawn to the room at the end of the hall, his feet moving like he’s not even in control of them. He’s a moth to a flame. He wants to avoid this, but he knows what happens when he doesn’t. His skin still aches from the last time he scrubbed his body til it bled, from the last time he didn’t satiate the desire burning at his core to be clean.

He enters the chapel and closes the door behind him, still shaken from the footsteps upstairs. He dips a cupped palm into the holy water font, splashing a bit more than necessary on himself. He kneels at the altar, eyes squeezed shut, and prays for forgiveness. He hasn’t even  _ done  _ anything today- at this point, he’s just apologizing for  _ being.  _ For existing as  _ this.  _ Minutes pass, maybe hours. He almost nods off at some point. He feels more comfortable kneeling on this wooden floor than he did laying on the expensive sheets of his assigned bed. He can’t sleep in a room that he was supposed to share with someone who’s now dead, not because of the  _ it could have been me _ , but because of the  _ would I have minded if it had been _ . Such thoughts are unholy.

When he finally feels a little better, he stands, crosses himself, and heads towards the door. He opens it and freezes. Two of the staff, marked by their royal colors, are standing halfway down the hallway. He recognizes both of them, the fairy with the pink dreadlocks and the succubus. They seem to relax when they see him.

“It’s just an angel,” the fairy says dismissively.

“André,” the succubus scolds.

Sam stands frozen, breaths shallowing. His wings flare out a bit defensively, but it’s a half-hearted gesture. If they wanted to, they could easily take him. They stay put.

“We’re not gonna hurt you, kid,” the fairy, André, assures him. “Just go back to your room. You’re not supposed to be down here.”

Sam nods mutely, still too terrified to speak. He starts walking again, sending a silent prayer that he remembers the way back through this labyrinth of a palace.

“See, Peg, my dear? Nothing to be worried about,” André grins to his companion as Sam passes. 

“I wasn’t worried,” the succubus huffs. “Just tryin’ t’do my job. Unlike  _ some  _ of us.”

When Sam is almost to the door to the tearoom, a remark from André almost stops him in his tracks.

“All of the angels we get always seem so aimless.”

“Yeah. Look at the poor thing. She looks like she hasn’t got a purpose in life anymore.”

Sam turns the handle and steps inside, the corners of his mouth turning in a small, bitter smile.

\---

Room 5G, 6:40 AM EST

Philip  _ really  _ didn’t want to wake up. He tried to shift over and fall back into the calm, dreamless sleep he’d previously been emerged in, but there was a strange sensation on his right arm that kept him up. It felt vaguely like someone was trying to scrub makeup off his forearm or something- why did that ring a bell- oh, the  _ rune _ . Philip sat up blearily, blinking a couple times before the world shifted into focus. 

Price is kneeling by the side of his bed, using a soaked hand towel from the bathroom to scrub the ink off his arm. When he sees Philip sit up, he stands, looking relieved.

“Oh, thank God. I was starting to think someone poisoned you in your sleep or something,” he jokes, then immediately cringes. “Bad joke. Way too soon. Ignore me.”

Philip almost laughs despite himself. He glances down at the smudges on his forearm.

“What were you doing with the rune?” he asks.

“Washing it off. I had to get enough of it off so it wouldn't hold power anymore,” Price explains. “You were  _ out _ . The charm normally only holds for an average of six hours. After that, it should wear off. But it’s been longer than that.”

“Maybe you got better at magic?” Philip suggests.

“Not possible. I'm a human. I've pretty much reached the max for magical power,” Price says dismissively. “You're just incredibly susceptible to magic. I was the same way when I… well, anyway, it just worries me. Especially since there are succubi in the palace.”

“Succubi…?”

“A type of demon. They get their life force from sexual contact,” Price explains casually, heading toward the bathroom to get rid of the towel. “In urban areas, there are systems set up to keep them satisfied. Out in the country, the just sort of run wild. Since there's no civilization around this place for miles, and you're the most susceptible target… well, things could get ugly.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.” Price says from the bathroom. The room is small enough so that Philip could probably hear him from anywhere. “Do you remember the female guard from last night?”

“Yeah.”

Philip recalls her wavy mahogany hair and flawless bronze skin. And also the fact that she had horns, wings, and a tail. But mainly how gorgeous she was.

“Watch out for her. She's a succubus. There's also Thomas, who’s an incubus, the male variant, but I wouldn’t worry too much about him.” Price says while shutting the door. “You can get dressed.”

Philip steps out of bed and heads to his suitcase. The suit from last night looked nice, but he'd much rather return to his usual sweatshirt and jeans uniform.

“Why shouldn't I worry about Thomas?” Philip asks while pulling his shirt off.

“He's got James- Madison, I mean, not Reynolds. He's a daemon.”

“A demon?”

“Close phonetically, not at all in all other aspects. Daemons are a subset of angels. They don't really adhere to the same strict laws that other angels like Sam do. They’re basically guardian angels. They’re attached to their soulmate by a red string invisible to everyone but themselves, and their soulmate once they’ve seen each other. Thomas is clearly James’s soulmate. That means their relationship is going to be deep, affectionate, unshakeable- and very sexually fulfilling. So Thomas is most likely not going to be an issue. Besides, as if that weren't enough, he has Patsy as well, a kitsune.”

“Sorry if I’m annoying you with all the questions-”

“I assure you you're not.”

“-But what's a kitsune?”

“Fox spirit. Same seductive abilities as succubi, but it's not vital for them. They don't get life force from it.”

“Then shouldn't I be wary of her too?”

There’s a beat, in which Philip struggles with his binder. This damn thing is such a hassle to get on.

“Can I come back in?” Price asks from behind the door.

“J-just a second.”

Philip finally gets the binder in place, and pulls his sweatshirt on over it. 

“Come in.”

When Price emerges, dressed casually in a button-down and slacks that seem a bit short for him, he looks startlingly grim.

“Look, Philip… about being wary of Patsy. The thing is… the power imbalance here is insane,” he starts off. “Anyone here could kill us. I’m not going to sugarcoat that. Patsy, Thomas, Reynolds, John and his family, Alex… even Sam could if they really wanted to. But just because these people are monsters doesn’t mean they don’t have basic morals. The only person you should really  _ fear  _ is whoever poisoned Jay, but we don’t know who that is. In short, be cautious. But don’t be paranoid.”

“Right.”

Philip is so not following his directions. It’s like there’s a filter in his brain that’s making sure the only thing he hears is  _ anyone here could kill us.  _ Oh God, he needs to get out of here, he needs to  _ wake up… _

“You know what, I retract that statement. Watch out for Reynolds. He’s an asshole,” Price declares crossing his arms.

That manages to draw out a small laugh from Philip.

“Yeah.”

Thinking about Reynolds, Philip’s mind wanders to his wife’s strange behavior last night before Jay’s death.

“Price?”

Price holds up a finger.

“I’ll answer all the questions you still have, I swear. Let’s just start walking. We’re supposed to be downstairs by seven, and it’s-” Price checked his watch- a real, physical watch, not a phone, how positively Neanderthal, “around 6:50.”

Philip nods, and as they head out of the room, Price adds,

“Oh, and watch out for André, too. His-  _ what the-” _

Philip lets out a noise best described as a yelp as the fairy himself appears before them, blocking the door. He’s got a hand on his hip and his eyebrows are raised and  _ the fuck does Philip’s heart think it’s doing, stop fluttering like that  _ immediately.

“You rang?” André says wryly.

Price, who seems to be trying to shake himself out of being affected by him, says with minimal stammering,

“J-just mentioned you in passing, we don’t need anything.”

“Positive?” André asks, raising a brow, eyes gleaming. 

Price places a hand on Philip’s shoulder, pushing him back slightly.

“Positive,” Price says with firm finality, grip on Philip’s shoulder tightening.

“Alrighty then,” André smirks, and with a mock salute, he’s gone.

“Your nails are digging into my shoulder,” Philip pipes up meekly after what feels like a minute of Price glaring at the spot André disappeared from.

Price lets go of his shoulder, and Philip notices his hands are shaking.

“Hey- uh, hey, are you okay?” Philip asks, alarmed.

Price seems to relax slightly, but he still looks shaken.

“I’m fine,” he says thickly. “What I was saying about…  _ him,  _ is that you should watch out for him as well. Fairies are a bit different than succubi. While succubi act on sexual urges, fairies act on more romantic urges. That doesn’t make them any less dangerous. Don’t ever believe that. Fairies don’t need to feed off it to live, but they’re malicious. Especially towards humans. If he found out… well, in summary, don’t trust him.”

They start heading downstairs, not crossing paths with anyone in the hall.

“He seemed nice,” Philip comments quietly, knowing how naïve he must sound.

“Again, charm. And you’re especially susceptible.”

“Right. Uh, can I ask another question?”

“I have a feeling you might deck me if I say you just did, so go ahead.”

Philip decides to ignore his smartass quip.

“Reynolds’s wife, Maria… what happened with her last night? The screaming and everything?”

“Maria is a banshee,” Price starts. The name rings a bell with Philip.

“Like a ghost?”

“Nah. Church and Adams are ghosts. Banshees are living creatures. They can sense when tragedy is about to happen, and scream to alert people around them. You’ll usually see banshees positioned around large events to warn authorities of any suspicious behavior.”

“So Reynolds that’s why Reynolds reacted like that,” Philip realizes. “Why did he bring a gun, though? Seems kind of overkill.”

“Well…” Price frowns, smoothing his hair. “Actually, considering the rumors around this place, I’d say it was a reasonable choice.”

“Seriously?” Philip questions. “What  _ are  _ the rumors I keep hearing referenced, anyway?”

Their conversation is cut short as Price opens the door to the main hall and they’re met with the sound of someone crying. Price hurries down the stairs, Philip at his heels. His heart is racing- what now? Price heads straight for Alex, who’s easy to spot along the back wall by his pigmentation. John stands nearby, arms crossed, Lafayette and Adrienne lean against the wall, Adrienne looking almost bored, and Hercules hovers nearby.

“What’s going on?” Price asks Alex quietly.

“Dunno,” he responds anxiously, wringing his webbed hands.

“She hasn’t said a damn thing,” John says, gesturing across the room.

Dolley is sitting on one of the benches, sobbing into her hands. Patsy has her arm around her comfortingly, and James sitting the other side of her, talking to her in a low voice that’s drowned out by the buzz of chatter around them.

“Everyone, quiet down please, let’s hear what she has to say…”

Church’s airy voice floats above the clamor, and as the din dies down a little. James’s low but clear voice reaches Philip’s ears.

“...You’re safe here, Mrs. Todd, no one here’s gonna hurt you. Once you can talk, can you tell us what happened?”

“I’m fine,” Dolley manages, wiping tears away. She takes a trembling breath, gaze flitting around the room like a skittish alley cat. “I woke up this morning and Miss Cosway’s bowl was- was empty, so I called out to see if she was in the bathroom, but there was no answer. I opened the bathroom door and-” she seems to bite back another sob. “H-her corpse is in the bathtub-!”

The room explodes with noise. Philip turns to Price, whose expression is stricken. Adrienne finally has the decency to appear the least bit engaged, their eyebrows raising slightly.

“The fuck do you mean by that? Elaborate a little, woman!” Reynolds shouts.

“Yelling at her isn’t helping anything, Mr. Reynolds!” Liz snaps from Mattie’s side. Philip realizes the centaur is cradling John’s kid in her sepia-brown arms. He wonders if Mattie knows her.

Dolley opens her mouth to speak again, and the room quiets.

“Her eyes were w-wide open, her whole expression just terrible- her body was all black and burned, scales peeling off, it was like she’d been electrocuted.”

She breaks off, burying her face in her hands again.

“This is insane,” Alex mutters. “I didn’t think it would be like this…”

“Alright, let’s calm down now-”

“Good morning, honored guests!”

A chorus of “sshhh”s fill the air like they’re all suddenly middle schoolers at an assembly, and the room becomes silent besides for Frances’s quiet babbling. The King himself is nowhere to be seen yet again, but his voice was clear as a bell.  _ That accent has got to be fake,  _ Philip thinks bitterly. All of them, really. There’s no way they all have the same theatrically exaggerated British accent.

“I’m thrilled to see you all here so bright and early. This is information will be pertinent to your stay here, so I suggest you listen carefully- wait.”

The King’s voice lost its perpetual cheeriness for a moment, and he muttered indistinctly for a few seconds.

“...Thirty-five, thirty six, who am I… oh!” The mirth returned to his tone. “Mrs. Cosway, of course, of course. Forgive me, I fear my memory’s going with my old age.”

He let out a laugh that was closer to a giggle than anything.

“Not really. I’m thirty-five. My apologies, that was a tangent. Anyway-”

“What did you do to Maria?” Dolley interrupts, her voice low and trembling. Her posture is still slumped, but there’s fury burning in her eyes.

The King scoffs.

“ _ I  _ didn’t do anything. Not  _ personally.  _ Please, Ms. Todd, if you could remain civil. Everything will be answered in time,” he assures her. 

Philip clenches his jaw. More of this aimless skirting around the subject bullshit. It’s Price all over again, except he likes Price, and Price isn’t a sociopathic, giggling, delusional disembodied voice who may or may not have a body count of two. Dolley looks like she’s about to protest, but a glare from Clinton shuts her mouth. Clinton, by the way, seems to have returned to duty, a cloth bandage over his cheek where Howe burned him.

“As you already know, every year I invite fifty people from all over  this subpar country to join me at my palace,” the King says, launching into exposition. “As you also know, no one ever returns. I  _ assure  _ you that none of you will be harmed- so long as each and every one of you adhere to my rules.”

“The fuck is that supposed-”

“Ah, tsk, tsk, Mr. Reynolds, how very disrespectful. Which leads us to my first condition: me and my darling wife are to be addressed with the proper etiquette for addressing royalty. My cherished assistants, while I may permit them to wear the colors, are not royalty. So while I suggest you are polite, there will be no technical repercussions for any verbal attack on my employees, though I cannot take responsibility for any response they have. My second condition is that no physical harm is to come of them. My third condition is that you do not attempt to open any doors that you are not permitted access to. Which brings me to another system I need to introduce you to: the door system.”

“Man, how the hell am I supposed to remember all this?” John mumbles under his breath.

Alex snorts.

“As guests, you have access to a number of rooms without any drawbacks. Places like this hall, the chapel, the ballroom, the library; these are open to you at all times. As my treasured guests, I want you to have all the amenities necessary to have  a comfortable stay. These doors will be marked with a square.”

Philip hears the sound of a pencil scratching. His eyes find the source, which is John Barker Church, armed with a notebook he got from God knows where. Lee voices the majority of the sentiments of the room with a groan.

“It’s going to be helpful!” Church protests, wiping some of the black liquid ever-flowing from his forehead away from his eyes. Philip makes a mental note to ask Price about that. 

“That’s true,” Angelica snaps at Lee before he can say anything. “Good thinking, Mr. Church.”

Church looks like he doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. His face darkens like he’s blushing and his gaze stays firmly fixed to the paper. Philip notes that he has fins and gills like Alex, so he assumes Church was whatever species Alex is when he was alive. He knows Alex is pretty low on the hierarchy thing, and judging by her hat, Angelica is a sorceress, which he knows is really high class (the highest, even?) So maybe the class difference is why he’s so flustered? Or maybe Church is just socially awkward and Philip is over thinking things. He has a tendency of doing that.

The King clears his throat, and Lee mutters a “my apologies, Your Majesty.”

“ _ Anyway _ , there are some rooms that can only be opened with a certain key. This is where the fun part begins.” The way he near  _ cackles  _ after he says this fills Philip with the sneaking suspicion that it isn’t going to be fun at all. “In each of your rooms, I have placed a key. The key has a message attached, a hint as to what room the key is for. The doors unlocked by these keys will be marked by a circle. While I have given the keys to specific people, there is no rule against giving your keys to others. However, using a key without all of the room’s current residents consenting to it will result in the same punishment as the same three infractions.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘the room’s current residents’?” Mrs. Washington asks. After a nudge from her husband, she adds, dangerously near sarcastic, “Your Majesty.” She’s shorter than Philip, even in her heels, but she radiates authority as much as her six foot husband does. Her skin is a deep forest green, and her thick black hair has yellow flowers interwoven in it.

“Excellent question. Take, for example, the key in you and your husband’s room. If, say, Mrs. Van Rensselaer-Schuyler wanted to open the corresponding door, if you both gave her permission to use it, she could with no consequences. However, if you gave her the key without your husband having any knowledge and she used it, it would be counted as an infraction.

One last thing: punishments for infractions need not be carried out on the person who committed them. So I suggest you work to keep all of your fellow guests in line. You never know if it’ll be carried out on you or your child. That’s all for now, have a nice-”

“Wait!” Alex cries, and dozens of pairs of eyes glare at him.

“Alex,  _ mon ami,  _ let us be civil,” Lafayette implores him, putting a hand on his shoulder in a manner that was more restraining than friendly.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, Your Majesty,” Alex apologizes, wincing like it pains him to say that. “But please, I think we have a right to know… why are we here?”

Philip isn’t sure how many beats of silence follow, but it becomes clear that the King has no intentions of answering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello.  
> It's me.  
> If I really wanted, I could give you a list of excuses on why this chapter is late, but I have a feeling none of you want to hear it. I can basically summarize it with finals. Now that it's the summer, I should be able to get up chapters more frequently!  
> Please comment your thoughts! I love to hear from you.


	5. In Which the Scavenger Hunt Commences

_Room 5H, 7:47 AM EST_

“ _Blood transcends the deepest seas-_ what in the world is that supposed to mean?”

“Is there a pool somewhere?” Price muses.

“Too easy,” Philip says dismissively. “What would the blood part be about then?”

After breakfast, the group had parted ways downstairs to go to their respective rooms and find their keys. They agreed to regroup in the great hall at noon for lunch and to share the information they’d gotten. Philip’s sitting at his desk, examining the slip of paper tied to the metal skeleton key that was sitting on the surface when they entered the room. He holds it up to the light, like maybe some other hidden part of the clue will show up. Nothing shows up, surprising approximately no one.

“Maybe there’s sirens in the pool?”

Price is laying on his back on his bed, staring at the canopy above it while he brainstorms with Philip.

“What does that have anything to do with blood?” Philip asks, twisting around in his seat so he’s facing Price.

“Have you ever _met_ a siren?”

“Not besides you,” Philip grins.

There’s a beat of confused silence on Price’s part before he laughs in realization.

“Right. I shouldn’t let my guard down,” he says, sitting up and pulling out a cigarette. “Speaking of which, tell me your backstory.”

“What?”

“Y’know. Who you are. You can’t exactly tell the truth, so make something up,” Price explains.

“Oh, right.”

As Price pulls out his lighter, Philip speaks up.

“Uh, Price? I actually have some lung problems, so could you maybe open the window when you smoke?”

“Oh. Right. Sure. Of course. Sorry.”

Price goes to the window and pulls the curtain back. The picturesque winter landscape hasn’t changed since yesterday. There’s no lock on the window, and it opens easily. As Philip lights his cigarette, Philip launches into his story.

“So, I’m a selkie from California. I got to the train station by plane. That’s all I know.”

Price blows smoke into the frigid air.

“Well, you gotta have a little more than that.”

“No, I mean, that’s all I remember. I was cursed with amnesia by a sorcerer who wanted my ticket.”

Price pauses, then shoots a look back at Philip.

“That’s… actually really good,” he laughs in surprise.

“I know,” Philip grins.

“Yes, very convincing,” André commented smoothly.

Philip jumps in his seat. Price’s cigarette goes tumbling out the window with a soft “fuck!”.

“Man, you gotta stop doing that,” Philip gripes, relaxing.

Price is gripping the windowsill. He won’t even look in André’s direction.

“How much did you hear?” he says through gritted teeth.

André giggles. The scent of artificial berry washes over Philip as André leans on the back of his chair.

“I didn’t need to hear anything, honey,” he says. “I know you two are changelings. All the staff does. It’s very exciting. We haven’t had two of you in- well, since my session, actually.”

“Your session?” Price questions.

“Changelings?” Philip breaths.

André tilts his head.

“What, are you leaving Freckles here in the dark?” he asks Price with mock offense. “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll enlighten you. You two aren’t any run-of-the-mill lowly humans. You two came from a different dimension or… something. No one quiet understands where you come from, and since you always have your memory wiped, it’s not like you can tell us. Most people view you as as useless as most humans, but His Majesty knows differently. As the only humans who can do magic, your spiritual power is very useful…”

André tilts Philip’s chin up, his thumb grazing over his chin. He regards Philip fondly, but more like someone looking at a pet than other person. Philip’s head is feeling kind of hazy. The room is warm, almost stuffy, but still comfortable. A sense of tranquility passes over him for the first time for as long as he can remember.

“Get away from him!”

For as much as Price seems to dislike André, this is the first time he’s actually been hostile towards the fairy. Philip dimly notes André removing his hand from his face, but the fuzzy feeling doesn’t fade. Price has his fists balled, and he towers over André, with a good foot and a bit on him heightwise. André merely seems amused.

“I was just testing out my suspicions. You’re knew to this word, aren’t you, Freckles?”

God, it was really warm in here. Philip should roll up his sleeves, but for some reason he felt like he shouldn’t. André’s question registered slowly in his brain, and he fought to answer it through the haze.

“I… I think so?” he frowned. “Do you mean- I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything around here. It’s all so much- I- what was I… sorry, I don’t, uh…”

“Don’t worry about it,” André cooed. “Stand up.”

Philip immediately jerked up to do as he was told, then stumbled and fell. André made no move to catch him. He sat on the floor, legs splayed to his side, blinking and trying to clear his thoughts.

“What are you doing?” Price says, and he’s yelling. He’s angry, and Philip can’t understand why. “Leave him alone!”

André spreads his hands in defeat.

“As you wish,” he smirks.

With a sarcastic curtsey, he’s gone, and the fog in Philip’s head is not.

Price is on the floor with him in an instant, a hand on his shoulder.

“Philip? You still with me?” he asks, the harsh tone of voice he used when addressing André gone.

“Price,” Philip near whines. “What’s wrong with me?”

“That bastard-” Price shakes his head. “Look. We need a sorcerer. Let’s go find a Schuyler. Can you walk?”

Philip doesn’t answer. He’s thinking about the Schuylers.

“I don’t like Philip Schuyler,” he says, frowning.

“Neither do I,” Price assures him, putting Philip’s arm around him and helping him to his feet. “We’ll go to one of the others.”

“Eliza,” Philip says, and he doesn’t know why, but it sounds right. In his current state, higher level thinking along the lines of _why_ is out of the question.

“Yeah. Sure. Eliza. Jesus, the next time I see André…”

Price breaks off on an angry muttering tangent, and they set off.

\---

_A Hallway on the First Floor, 8:00 AM EST_

“Thomas. It’s been a long time.”

Thomas pauses. He turns to meet Lafayette’s gaze. Their posture is relaxed, they’re and alone, having likely abandoned Adrienne somewhere. Or maybe they just asked them to leave. Adrienne would do anything for Lafayette, and they knew that. Thomas almost pities them. James tugs at his sleeve.

“Thomas? What’d they say?” he asks.

Right. Neither of Thomas’s partners speak French.

“Can you leave me and Monsieur Lafayette alone for a minute? I'll catch up,” he says, and he can see concern pass over both of them. He smiles in a “everything’s fine” way and hopes that's enough for them.

Patsy is the first to nod, turning to leave, and James squeezes his hand before following after her. He can see them glance back at him before they turn the corner. As soon as they’re gone, he slips back into French.

“Sorry. I don't know if it's okay to call you-”

Lafayette waves their hand dismissively.

“No, no, I'm not offended by gendered language. It’s hard to avoid in French. Monsieur is better than Marquis, anyhow.”

“Right.”

Silence. Thomas clears his throat. Lafayette adjusts their ponytail.

“So you married James,” Lafayette comments.

“He's my soulmate,” Thomas says quickly, eager to keep the conversation flowing and avoid another awkward pause. “How was I not going to?”

“How do your parents feel about that?” they ask cautiously.

Thomas sets his jaw.

“Parent. My father died years ago.”

Lafayette dips his head respectfully.

“My apologies-”

“Don't,” Thomas snorts. “That bastard couldn't get in the ground fast enough.”

“And your mother?”

“I'm not speaking to her,” he says, adjusting his coat. “Or any of them, besides Lucy.”

There's that silence again. Lafayette leans against the wall. Thomas tugs on his identification charm, with its glowing magenta eyes.

“So Patsy,” Lafayette attempts. “She Junior’s little sister?”

“She was Junior,” Thomas explains. “Transitioned five years ago.”

Lafayette dips their head slightly.

“Ah. That explains it. Give her my congratulations.”

“Of course. And what of you?” Thomas prompts them.

“What of me?” Lafayette echoes. “Romantically?”

At Thomas’s nod, they scuff their feet on the ground.

“Well, I ran away from Paris. My grandmother wanted me to marry Adrienne, and I couldn’t bear… couldn’t bear being with someone who brings me such little pleasure,” Lafayette admits.

Thomas smiles understandingly.

“Is there no one else?” he asks pointetly. Lafayette cocks an eyebrow in questioning.  A sharp-toothed smile creeps onto Thomas’s face. “I’ve seen the way you look at Mulligan, don’t try to-

Lafayette practically squeaks in protest.

“Th-that’s not- I don’t- he’s a brownie, for God’s- I just admire him aesthetically!” they stammer.

“Very much so,” Thomas smirks, recalling the hunger in his friend’s eyes. “Don’t be _too_ rough on him, okay?”

Lafayette shoves him on the arm playfully, just like they used to. It’s nice. This. Being with them. It’s been so long. How old was he when his mother forbid the Lafayettes from visiting? He couldn’t’ve been older than fifteen. Lafayette doesn’t seem to have changed much. All that raw charm and intellect overshadowed by their rebellious streak.

After a moment, Lafayette opens their mouth, then shuts it again. There’s something on their mind.

“What?”

“I was… wondering…” Lafayette starts with care.

“What do you want from me?” Thomas asks flatly.

Of course. Lafayette never seemed to be without some ulterior motive.

“I wanted to catch up, Thomas…” Lafayette says, fidgeting with the bracelets on their wrist. “Truly. But I did have a question in mind.”

“Shoot.”

“How has your… ah, condition been?” Lafayette asks, tilting their head.

Thomas’s defenses raise. He straightens, feels his expression become stony. He runs his tongue over his teeth, feeling the jagged edges.

“I haven't... had an episode in years,” he answers finally. “Why would you- why do you want to know?”

Lafayette’s red eyes are almost pitying, brow furrowed slightly.

“Because, dear friend, I have a suspicion that this King intends to turn us against each other. I don't want anyone to turn on you because of it.”

“No one will turn on me because no one will know,” Thomas says, narrowing his eyes.

“I know, I know,” Lafayette says, putting a hand on his arm fraternally. “I just want you to know, whatever happens, I’ll stand by you.”

Thomas meets his gaze, feels something burning within him.

“The same for you, cousin.”

\---

_Second Floor Guest’s Hall, 8:17 AM EST_

Stairs were somewhat of a challenge in Philip’s dazed state, but they somehow made their way down to the second floor without any major mishaps. When they arrive, little Cath is plunked on the floor against the wall, arms crossed.

“Hello, Cath,” Price says, adopting the soft tone and kinder smile he showed around Sam earlier. “What are you doing here all by yourself?”

“Peggy wanted to find the door to our key, and I don’t wanna,” they explain sulkily. “That’s what the bad guy wants us to do.”

“That’s true. Stick it to the man. I like it,” Price grins. “Hey, do you happen to know where your sister Elizabeth is?”

“Just call her Eliza. Dad’s the only person that calls her Elizabeth when he’s mad,” Cath explains, then points to room 2C. “And yeah. She’s in her room.”

“Thank you!”

Price drags Philip over to the door, then knocks twice deftly. There’s a few moments pause before someone calls out “Angie?”

“Not Angie. It’s Price. I need your help,” he says.

His tone is honest and pleading and Philip doesn’t understand how there seems to be twenty different Prices, to fit every situation perfectly. Philip just always seems to be Philip, who’s bewildered by this all, and falls asleep with his binder on, and has panic attacks and picks fights with otherworldly beings and is so susceptible to magic that he feels like he’s coming off a fever from one touch from an insanely attractive fairy.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he barely notices when the door opens. He hears conversation like it’s coming from a TV in a different room than him, and feels himself being shepherded to a bed with a somewhat detached feeling. Then Eliza is hovering over him, and Philip feels a sort of pull to her. Not attraction, because she seems a little old for him and it just definitely isn’t like that. Just some sort of connection. His head hurts and the room is too bright, so he shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose like that’ll help.

A rich, earthy smell wafts around the room after a minute or so of muted voices and lying with his eyes closed. They’re inside and it’s the middle of the winter, so Phillip can’t imagine what the smell is coming from. Thinking about it sends a new wave of exhaustion wash over him. A cup is pressed into his hands, and Philip has the sense to sit up and sip it. It’s a thick liquid with the same earthy taste he smelled earlier, with a hint of something sourer. It’s not particularly appetizing, but the unusualness of the taste drives him to take another drink, then drain the glass. As soon as he does, the world pops back into clarity.

“How’re you feeling?”

It’s Eliza. Her kind cornflower blue eyes are accented with dark circles that imply she didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.

“Better,” Philip answers truthfully, setting down his cup on the table next to the bed. “Thank you so much, Miss Schuyler.”

“Call me Eliza, dear,” Eliza smiles warmly. “And it was no problem. Agrimony to reverse the spell, fern leaf for mental clarity and cleansing. I’m just glad I could help.”

Agrimony and fern leaf- sounds like herbs. Right. She’s a sorceress.

“How much do you remember?” Price asks, his smirk teasing but not malicious.

“Not much?” Philip admits, rubbing his forehead. “I remember André touching me. Then it’s all kind of blurry.”

Eliza clicks her tongue disapprovingly.

“Preying on a child… how can he sleep at night?” she mutters, picking up the cup and setting it over on her desk, which is covered in pots and jars filled with different herbs.

“I’m not a child,” Philip says defensively. “I’m 18.”

Price’s eyebrows raise, and Philip doesn’t know why. He’s only 19.

“My mistake,” Eliza says, eyes sparkling. “Have you two made any progress with the key?”

“We were brainstorming before all this sh- stuff happened,” Philip says.

“Angelica says she has ours figured out, but I think she doesn’t want to admit she has no clue,” Eliza chuckles. “Well, I won’t keep you. I’ll probably be here if you need anything else.”

“Thank you again,” Price says.

Philip stands up, heads over to the door, and they exit together, waving to Eliza.

“I’m surprised she didn’t suspect anything,” Price murmurs once the door is shut.

“Supsect what?” chirps Cath, still in their position against the wall.

“Nothing,” Price recovers breezily, taking Philip by the shoulders and leading him out of the hall.

“Maybe be more aware of your surroundings,” Philip snorts once they’re in the stairwell.

“Maybe you should shut up,” Price grumbles, but he seems shaken. He pauses, looks Philip over. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“You did warn me about him,” Philip laughs sheepishly.

Price shakes his head distantly.

“I don’t know what he was planning,” he mutters. “I have a feeling he wasn’t just trying to humiliate you.”

“Yeah, well…” Philip doesn’t know what to say. He runs a hand through his hair, fingers getting caught in the curls. “Sorry for the trouble.”

“It’s not your fault,” Price says quickly. “Let’s head back to the room and get the key to see if we can figure something out.”

Philip nods, and they head back upstairs.

\---

Main Hall, 12:34 PM EST

The long table in the great hall is covered with plates from lunch, skeleton keys, and slips of paper with one line riddles. At lunch, it had been reported that the Adamses had found their key lead to a pool on the second floor, which was about negative helpfulness, and Mr. and Mrs. Schuyler had found that their key lead to a lounge on the same floor. (Angelica had figured out their clue). After lunch, Martha suggested they share their riddles. It felt ridiculously grade school-ish. Here they were in some murder castle of hell acting like it was show and tell.

“ _It takes two to unlock one’s demons._ It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Stigmatization of demons aside, it’s not even a riddle. Like there’s nothing clever about it. It’s just-”

“Hamilton,” Thomas cut him off. “If you would shut up for one second-”

“Excuse me?”

“-We have the same clue.”

“What?” Alex says, glancing at Hercules. They were roommates, right.

“James, Patsy and I have the same clue as you,” Thomas says deliberately, like he’s explaining something to a child. “That would explain the _it takes two_ part, see?”

“I get it,” Alex snaps.

“But then wh…”

Hercules fades out as the eyes in the room turns to him. He clears his throat awkwardly and pulls his beanie down, slinking down in his seat slightly.

“No, _mon cher,_ continue,” Lafayette implores him. They prop their head up on the back of their head, and the way they narrow their eyes seems to fluster Hercules more.

“I was just going to ask what the second part meant,” he says, his voice surprisingly soft for how low it is.

“Is there a dungeon?” Benedict suggests.

His eyes are reflecting Thomas’s magenta, but as he glances around the room they become a kaleidoscope of different shades and shapes. They stop on Peggy’s golden yellow as she scoffs at his suggestion.

“A dungeon? Like, for hiding the kinky stuff or-”

“Not like that,” Benedict hisses, a blush crossing his sallow cheeks. “Like a medieval dungeon. It is a castle.”

“There is.”

Philip turns in surprise. It’s the only female guard, Shippen. _Watch out for her. She’s a succubus._ She _is_ alarmingly beautiful. She crosses her arms at the shocked glances.

“What? I’m allowed to give out information,” she says, cocking her head and shaking her chestnut brown hair away from her face.

The comment seems to be aimed at Benedict, whose blush has intensified. Though Philip is wary after the André incident, he still feels Shippen’s pull. It’s different than André’s. André’s seemed to promise warmth and safety and gentle touches, where Shippen’s was more of a she-could-punch-you-and-you’d-thank-her vibe. Philip ends up dropping his gaze to his lap.

“Well then,” Thomas says. “That could very well be it. Miss Shippen, would you be so kind as to show us where the door to this dungeon is?”

“Il me fera plaisir, Monsieur Jefferson,” Shippen smirks.

Thomas, James, and Patsy and Alexander and Hercules’s keys do indeed unlock the dungeon. It’s cold and damp and spacious and has metal cuffs attached to the wall. Adrienne makes a comment under their breath about it probably being haunted and earns a glare from Abigail. Something about the place makes it hard to breathe, probably the fact that the air has been locked up and stagnant so long. Philip excuses himself back upstairs, locates the nearest bathroom, and takes his binder off.

No one else finds where their key leads before dinner. Or at least, Philip’s brain supplies, no one _says_ they found where their key led.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Search history: "elizabeth hamilton" "wiccan herbs" "english to french"
> 
> Welcome back, beloved readers!  
> I was in New York for a week and saw Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812, which was absolutely phenomenal. I def recommend listening to it if you haven't already. Also, my computer broke. Am I making excuses, or does the universe just not want me to get a chapter up in a week? We'll never know!  
> Always feel free to comment! See you next week (hopefully)


	6. In Which Screw It, We Might Die Anyway

Main Hall, 8:38 PM EST

“Theodosia, no. You are not having champagne. You’re sixteen.”

“Just a tiny bit! And don’t ‘Theodosia’ me, Mom!”

Sitting with his legs tucked underneath him and clutching a cold wine glass, Philip reflects on how, in times of impending peril, people tend to turn to alcohol. He was going to say something about how it said something about human nature, but as far as he knows, he and Price are the only human ones here. Still, there’s certainly something psychological there. That’s poem material. 

When in his room earlier, Philip had found a small journal in his suitcase. There wasn’t much that gave him any helpful hints about who he was, but they were fascinating to read. Not because they were good, though they were nothing to scoff at, in Philip’s humble opinion. Because they were all about things he related to so deeply, but he had no memory of writing them. Plus, the knowledge felt empowering, somehow. He was a poet. He was a real person with interests.

“C’mon, ‘Dosia, a sip isn’t going to kill her,” Aaron reasons, placing an appealing hand on his wife’s arm.

“Don’t encourage her, Aaron,” Theodosia scowls.

“C’mooon! Philip, you’re my age, right?”

Theo Jr. catches Philip off guard.

“W- I mean, kind of, yeah, I’m eighteen,” he admits.

He’s barely had two sips of wine, and he doesn’t really see the appeal. The taste is bitter on his tongue. Price is nearly done with his glass, and doesn’t seem flustered in the least. Something tells Philip he’s done this before. He smokes, so clearly he doesn’t have the best habits. 

“Well, Philip’s an adult. His mother isn’t here,” Theodosia says firmly. “Your mother is, and I say no.”

“‘Dosia-”

“No, Aaron!”

“Don’t have too much, Philip,” Alex advises him. “Don’t want you experiencing the bitch of hangovers too early.”

Alex is certainly one to talk. He’s flushed bright teal from liquor, and he says everything a bit too loudly, like the room is too loud and he won’t be heard if he doesn’t. The room is filled with the buzz of chatter and the clink of glasses, but not enough to warrant that. He still seems mentally present, though.

Philip swishes the dark golden liquid in his glass before taking another sip. He tries to keep from visibly wincing from the taste. Price sees through him, though, per usual. He chuckles.

“It’s an acquired taste,” he assures Philip.

“I know,” Philip frowns. “Don’t see why anyone would want to acquire it.”

Price laughs, raising his glass for one of the slaves to refill.  _ Slaves.  _ The word makes Philip’s stomach turn every time he hears it. It’s sickening. Not only is it insanely morally wrong, he and Price should technically be among them. And yet here they are, acting like they’re beneath them, utilizing their labor. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Or maybe that’s the wine.

Philip’s attention is drawn to Thomas, who stood up and raised his champagne glass. 

“A toast,” he grins. “To being totally fucked.”

There’s some scattered laughter. Patsy whoops. James makes a gesture like he’s pulling on something, and Thomas collapses back in his chair like he’s been pushed. He grins at James cheekily. James is clearly trying to look pissed off, but there’s a smirk tweaking the edge of his lips that suggests he isn’t being entirely sincere. Thomas downs his glass.

“Come on,” Alex interjects. “That kind of attitude isn’t helping anything about the situation.”

“On the contrary,” Thomas says, eyes shining mirthfully. “I think it’s perfect. I mean, why complain? I always knew I was going to live out my final days drinking champagne in a palace.”

“We are  _ not  _ dying,” Alex says through gritted teeth. “That would make absolutely no sense. Why all the rules? Why the whole key thing? If the King was just going to off us all, there would be no reason for all this complexity.”

“Uh, I’ve got your reason,” Thomas counters lazily. “The amusement of a madman?”

There’s an uneasy tension around the table as everyone glances around like they expect someone to drop dead from Thomas’s words alone.

“What?” he asks.

“First condition: His and Her Majesty are to are to be addressed with the proper etiquette for addressing royalty,” pipes up Church helpfully.

There’s a fair amount of eyerolls around the table.

Thomas scoffs.

“He’s not here, is he?” he points out.

“Yeah, but his lackeys are,” Angelica says, scowling at Thomas.

Three of the staff are scattered around the room. Cornwallis, one of the tallest guards, who has talons for feet and shaggy grey wings, looks like he couldn’t be less interested in the conversation. Clinton is applying a new bandage to the burn on his face. André is applying mascara in the reflection of the gold decals on the wall. He looks up.

“What?”

The tension dissipates. Eacker, who looks like he’s been carved out of dark grey stone and has horns curling out from behind his ears, narrows his cold, silver eyes.

“That doesn’t mean we should be lax with the rules,” he says.

“Jeez, man, chill out. Have a drink,” Lee smirks.

Eacker raises his eyebrows.

“Oooh, my bad,” Lee cackles, earrings glinting in the candlelight. “What was that you said yesterday? Something like ‘us regular monsters’?”

“I don’t get it,” Philip whispers to Price.

“Gargoyles like Eacker can’t eat or drink,” Price explains quietly. 

“Wretched little gremlin,” Eacker sneers.

“Hey, hey, whoa,” Church tries.

“Fuckin’ asshole,” Lee growls, flipping Eacker off.

Eacker stands up, slamming a hand on the table. Washington and John raise at the same time to counter him. The four men stare each other down for a minute, a silent battle of wills. Eacker seems to decide it’s not worth it, turning away from the table.

“I’m out,” he grumbles, starting towards the staircase.

“Y-yeah, you better be,” Lee mutters, clearly shaken.

“Yeah, I’m gonna call it a night too,” Eliza says. “If any of you do anything stupid, my room is 2C.”

Angelica downs the rest of her glass, then joins her. Not everyone was at the table in the first place; Cath’s mother had taken them back to their room after dinner, Mattie’s with Frances, the Reynolds and Paine hadn’t shown up to dinner at all, and God knows where Sam is. The remaining crowd starts to disperse a little, heading to their rooms or to the couches around the hall to talk. 

“Another drink?” Price asks, referring to Philip’s empty glass.

“No thanks,” Philip laughs. “I better not.”

The glass is enough to fill him with a fuzzy feeling. He’s not drunk, by any means, but he feels like there’s a slight delay between what’s happening and his reaction to it. He wouldn’t want to heighten that feeling. He’s fine to stand, though.

“I’m going to head back to the room,” he says.

Not to sleep. He’s not tired yet. He feels like if the last two days haven’t given him something to write about, nothing will.

\---

_ Fourth floor hall, 10:32 PM EST _

All Sam’s doubts about the floor of the inner halls being glass were assuaged when he saw the siren swimming in the water beneath it.

He knows it’s a siren because of the absence of the spiny dorsal fin mermaids have. Sirens always seem more idealized to him. Mermaids are more what you should realistically get taking the base of a terrestrial creature and making half of them aquatic; sharp edges and unsettling features. Sirens are sleek and ethereal. The one beneath him has a navy blue tail and jet black hair that flows behind her as she swims. By the time Sam has gotten over the initial shock of seeing her, she’s turned the corner. He finds himself running after her.

He follows the siren down the next hall, then another, and is faced with a locked door. There’s a scarlet circle emblazoned on the door. Sam’s hand is drawn to the pocket where his key rests. It feels almost burning to the touch. The lock clicks as it gives.

The room behind the door is long and narrow. It almost feels like another hallway. The soft carpet is a welcome change from the cold glass. The room is dimly lit, the only source of light candles set at intervals. Sam’s gaze shifts to the walls. It’s a portrait gallery, paintings in golden frames every few feet. Each of them near the front of the room portray sorcerers in royal dress. There’s a plaque under each of them with their names.  _ George Louis I, Sophia Dorothea, George Augustus II, Wilhelmina Charlotte Caroline, Frederick Lewis, Augusta.  _

Then Sam is met with a familiar face. André’s charming smile beams down on him from the next painting. Looking down the wall, he sees that all the paintings from them on seem to be of the staff. Only, there’s names he doesn’t recognize amongst them. Those he doesn’t recognize have festering black goop smeared across their faces. It almost looks like oil. With a start, he realizes it’s similar to the defaced painting in the great hall.

A sense of vague unease spreads over Sam and he shivers. Near instinctively, he gets on his knees and shuts his eyes, whispering a prayer to himself. He crosses himself and immediately burning fingers clamp around his mouth.

His eyes fly open and he thrashes in panic. The hand tightens and Sam is pulled against someone’s body. It’s not  _ literally  _ burning, but it seems pretty close. A harsh voice murmurs in his ear.

“Don’t fight. I’m bigger and stronger than you. I would prefer not to hurt you, but I will not hesitate.”

Sam forces himself to relax, but he’s shaking. His captor takes their hand off his mouth, but keeps an iron grip on his shoulder. Sam can feel the heat through the thin fabric of his robes. 

“Stand up.”

Sam obliges, sparing a look over his shoulder. It’s Howe. Howe, who’s a way higher class than him and a foot and a half taller than him. He feels tears start to well in his eyes.  _ What did he do what does Howe want from him what’d he do wrong what- _

“Christ,” Howe mutters, regarding him with an almost amused expression. “Look at you. His Majesty will be pleased.”

“Wh-what?” he chokes out, finally able to speak. “I d-don’t underst-stand, what did I-”

“Don’t think too hard about it, kid,” Howe chuckles. “Walk. I’ve got someone who’d like to meet you.”

Terrified, Sam lets Howe guide him to the end of the hall. What is he supposed to do? His instinct is to pray, but his mouth feels glued shut. Howe reaches over Sam to unlock the door, which is marked with a diamond. Diamond? Sam doesn’t remember that one. Square is unlocked, circle is locked, but he’s almost certain the king didn’t say anything about diamonds. Howe ushers him through the door, and it locks behind them.

They’re in a stairway now, with jeweled fairy lights strung across the ceiling decoratively. Howe nudges Sam and he keeps walking. He can’t do anything else. After a flight of stairs, Howe unlocks another door which leads to a small square room. The only furniture is a long white sofa. There’s a painting of a clearly female figure, features again blurred out with black substance. The room smells pleasant, like flowery perfume.

Howe leads him through the small room to another staircase in the back. At the top is a door. It’s unmarked. Howe steps in front of Sam and knocks.

“Excuse me, Your Majesty?” he calls.

“William? Is that you?” a clear, feminine voice answers.

“Yes, my Queen. I’m here to see His Majesty.”

The door opens smoothly, revealing who Sam assumes to be the Queen. She’s stunningly gorgeous, and barely clothed. Her short, pale pink robe hugs her curves and compliments her dark skin tone, and a delicate golden crown rests atop her short, coiled curls. She smiles as she sees Sam, amber eyes shining.

“Hello, darling. I almost didn’t see you there.”

Sam shrinks into himself, not knowing what to say. His gaze drops to the floor.

“Oh, bless him. Come in, both of you.”

Sam briefly considers bolting, but the pleasant floral smell is heightened here, and almost intoxicating. He finds himself entering the room.

“I’m Queen Charlotte,” she says to him. “It’s such a thrill to have new blood here. You have to go through my chambers to get to my husband’s, by the way. I hope you don’t mind.”

Like with most things in life, Sam doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t.

The Queen’s chambers are luxurious, curtains draped everywhere. This room looks like somewhat of a lounge, with couches everywhere and a table with a tea set. He follows Charlotte and Howe through what looks like a dressing room into what he assumes must be Charlotte’s bedroom. There’s a vanity on the far wall with gold embellishments, and on the other, a bed covered in a mountain of pillows. Everything is pink, a diluted version of the royal colors. It’s pleasantly warm.

On the same wall as the door is small pool in the ground, the darkness behind it suggesting it leads from somewhere. The siren Sam saw earlier has her arms propped up on the edge. She has bronze skin and thick brows, and her long, black hair is dripping onto the carpet. She wears nothing besides for a golden circlet. Even though Sam isn’t attracted to women, he feels intrusive seeing her naked. She seems to have no such worries, flashing a smile at Sam when she sees him. Charlotte notices his interest.

“This is Sarah Lennox, my lovely paramour,” she says, crossing the room to kneel next to the pool. 

She brushed Sarah’s hair behind her ear, and Sarah leaned into her hand like an affectionate cat. Sam again felt uncomfortable viewing such naked intimacy. Among angels, intimacy was scorned. Buying into pleasure was sin. Not even sexual pleasure. Love itself was pleasure. Committing yourself to another person was blasphemous, as the only person you should commit to was the Lord. 

Charlotte glances back at Howe, and makes a not-so-subtle gesture to Sam. Howe nods. Sam’s anxiety builds. Charlotte smiles and sighs.

“Of course. George will be thrilled,” she says, with amusement Sam can’t understand. “Well, don’t let me keep you. He’s stressing himself out with plans right now. I’m sure he’ll be glad for the distraction.”

Howe bows neatly and Sam follows his example. He follows Howe through a door that leads to a small passageway, with another door at the end. 

“Wait here,” Howe commands.

Sam stops. Howe disappears behind the door. Sam toys with his cross necklace.  After a few minutes, Howe reappears. There’s a faint blush on his light brown skin, and he seems to be trying to pull himself together. He opens the door wider and gestures for Sam to enter.

“His Majesty will see you now,” he says stiffly.

Sam steps in the room timidly. He’s shaking again. The King’s chambers are very similar to Charlotte’s, only instead of a pink color palate, it’s all royal red. The King himself is seated at his desk. Sam has to take a moment to take him in. He’s stunningly handsome, with high, defined cheekbones and narrow red eyes. His features are all edges, but not in a bony way. In fact, he’s pretty muscular. He’s wearing full out regalia, crown and everything. Sam can definitely see how this man would match up to the voice heard in the main hall. The King’s gaze turns to Sam, and he bows, hugging his arms  around his own waist nervously.

“Y-your Majesty,” he stammers out.

What more is there to say? What is he doing here? What does he want from him? He hears the chair shift as the King stands, but he doesn’t dare remove his gaze from the floor. 

“Samuel Seabury. Correct?”

Though the King still has his over the top accent, his tone is slightly less... eccentric, Sam guesses. He sounds a little tired. 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he confirms, voice trembling.

“You were stationed at Purgatory before this?”

Sam’s eyes widen. He clutches his necklace. The King clears his throat.

“Correct?”

“Y-yes I was, but how d-did you know?” Sam stammers.

The King is clearly alive, and he’s a sorcerer. There’s no way he should be able to know that. Come to think of it, how did the ticket get to Sam in the first place? It was enchanted, obviously, but no spell is strong enough to bypass the barrier of the mortal world. Right? Just how powerful of a sorcerer is he? The King merely chuckles.

“There’s no need to keep stooped down like that, Samuel. I demand, respect, not reverence.”

Sammy straightens, but he still doesn’t look at the King.

“My, Howe was right. You’re certainly something,” he muses.

“Y-your Majesty?” Sam questions, not knowing what he’s asking, or if he wants an answer.

“You’re quite beautiful,” the King states simply. 

Sam inhales sharply and shakes his head slightly. The edges of his cross are digging into his palm.

“N-no, I…” he says. He feels like there’s a weight on his chest, squeezing his lungs and making it difficult to breathe.

“Why are you here?” the King asks, and his voice is coming from somewhere than it was before.

“I don’t understand,” Sam says.

“I invite angels every year, and they almost never show up. But you’re here,” the King explains. “Why is that?”

Somehow, the truth comes blurting out of his mouth.

“I’m faulty,” he admits. “I don’t- they don’t- they don’t want me, I- I’m not f-fit for anywhere. They put m-me in Purgatory because they didn’t kn-know what to do with me.”

“Slow down,” the King says. His voice is strangely anchoring. “Here- sit down.”  
The King’s bed. Sam obeys. He sinks a little bit into the thick blankets on top of it. He bites his bottom lip nervously.

“What do you mean by faulty?” he asks.

“I…” Sam hesitates. “I’m not what an angel should be. I don’t- I can’t follow the rules like the rest of them. And I’m- I don’t really fit their binary, and I like… I like people I’m not supposed to like.”

The confession is arsenic on his tongue.

“People you’re not supposed to like?” the King echoes questioningly.

Sam shakes his head. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest.

“You’re gay.”

Sam doesn’t respond. He’s drowning in guilt.  _ Freak of nature devilish slut not what He intended look at him he’s a freak- _

“I shouldn’t like anyone in the first place,” Sam whispers. “Like I said, I’m faulty. I want. I fear. I  _ question  _ things.”

“You-” the King sighs. “That’s  _ normal.” _

“It’s sinful!” Sam explodes, and he starts to cry.

The other angels found it somewhat of a fascination when he cried. The way he had so much emotion that he just- couldn’t hold it. They would sometime provoke it on purpose. They would always stare. He can feel their eyes on him now.

“Hey, hey, darling, you’re okay,” the King soothes him. “Hey, look at me-”

His rough hand touches gently to Sam’s face. Sam jerks away. He’s on his feet before he knows it, his back to the King, leaning on the end of the bed with trembling arms.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I-”

There’s too many feelings swirling inside him, a storm of fear and uncertainty and guilt and-  _ no no no- _

“Are you afraid of me?” the King asks. “Don’t worry, I won’t be offended.”

“Yes,” Sam breathes. “Terrified.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the King assures him.

“That’s not- I kn-know,” Sam stutters.

“Then what is it?”

Sam knows exactly what it is.

“You- y-you- make me  _ want,”  _ he chokes out.

“Want?” the King repeats. “Oh, my. Want what, precisely?”

Heavy silence. Sam thinks he can hear the trickle of water from Charlotte’s chambers, a muted giggle. He wonders how much of this conversation Charlotte and Sarah can hear. When the King speaks again, he sounds closer.

“Samuel. Look at me.”

Sam turns, and looks up to meet the King’s gaze. His eyes are cold but captivating. Sam could look into them for a long time. He can see the King’s chest rising and falling with each breath he takes. The silence is serene, but suffocating. Too much room for thought. Sam shudders as the King touches a hand to his cheek again. He doesn’t pull away this time.

“You’re enrapturing,” he murmurs thoughtfully.

His touches are soft, but Sam can see the hunger in his eyes. He sees something barely contained. It’s horrifying and thrilling at the same time. His heart is racing.

“Maybe you weren’t meant to be like the rest of them,” the King says. “You’re different. You’re here.”

Sam reaches up and touches the King’s hand. He thinks about how Sarah melted at Charlotte’s touch. He’s better than that. He would never give in to desire so openly. But here he is.

“Could you let go of your God for a little while, Samuel?” Sam is drunk on his words. “Would you trust me? Hm?”

His brain his shouting  _ sin sin sin sin  _ but his heart doesn’t stop pounding.

“Yes,” he breathes, and a smile twists the King’s mouth.

“Then strip.”

The bluntness alarms Sam, but his alarm just turns to eagerness with the same momentum and he finds himself removing his robes. The metal of his necklace is cold against his skin. The angels are screaming in his ears.  _ This is blasphemy what is he doing such a disgrace he’ll never be welcome back here disgusting hellchild- _

But they can’t compete with the moment the King’s lips press to his.

\---

_ Stairwell, 11:05 PM EST _

Dolley hasn’t been involved with anyone since Mr. Todd had died, but Patsy Wayles was a luxury she wasn't going to deny herself.

Patsy was loud, especially after a few drinks; she was unafraid to take up space and voice her opinions. There was a kind of magnetism about her. Your eyes were just drawn to her. And she was pretty. She really was. So when she’d approached Dolley with open flirting, she’d decided screw it, she might die anyway.

“Thomas’ll be busy with James tonight, so not my room,” Patsy reasons, leaning against the stairwell wall.

She’s stunning in the golden lighting, bathing her features and accentuating her curves. Her dark eyes shine. Dolley is already taken.

“Not my room either,” Dolley declines quickly. “Cosway’s body is gone, but I still can't stand that place.”

It’s true; when she’d returned to her room to get her key, her bathroom was as pristine as if nothing ever happened. But how can you stay in a room where someone was just brutally murdered? It was unnerving, to say the least.

“Somewhere else, then,” Patsy decides.

Dolley takes her hand and presses her lips to her wrist. She can feel her pulse.

“You're beautiful,” she murmurs.

“ _ C’est gentil _ ,” Patsy giggles. “You are, too.”

Dolley lets go of her hand, and Patsy brings it beneath her chin, tilting her face up towards her. Dolley notes her bright red lipstick. It’s probably going to stain. God, Dolley could think of worse things. There’s a pool of heat in the bottom of her stomach and the thought of Patsy’s lips on her aggravates it.

“I’ve never had sex with a vila before,” Patsy notes, almost as an offhand comment.

“What, am I just a new notch in your belt, then?” Dolley jokes, smirking. “Another goal from your bucket list?”

“You’re much more than that, my dear,” Patsy assures her.

“Good.”

They kiss, and Dolley finds herself pressed against the wall. Patsy’s fingers thread through her short hair. Dolley presses her hips against Patsy’s as her tongue explores her mouth. Dolley brings her hands to Patsy’s jaw and thinks that this is paradise. Too soon, Patsy pulls away, and starts up the stairs, her fingers entwined with Dolley’s.

“Where are we going?” Dolley asks.

“We’ll find somewhere,” Patsy says carelessly.

They explore the palace a little bit, giggling and stealing kisses. Patsy tastes like champagne, and Dolley probably does too. Dolley is just thinking that she doesn’t know how much longer she can wait before they find an unlocked door. Dim lighting and the smell of old books.

“It’s a library,” she observes.

“Yeah,” Patsy says, gazing around. “Perfect.”

Before she has time to say anything else, Dolley is pressed against one of the tables, Patsy’s lips on her neck. She lets out a moan that’s been a long time in coming, and Patsy starts to unbutton her shirt. When she’s done she pulls it off, leaving Dolley in her bra and skirt. 

“I don’t think we need this,” Patsy smirks, unclasping Dolley’s bra.

“Not fair,” Dolley complains, squirming. “You’ve still got all your clothes on.”

“In time,” Patsy purrs.

Dolley gasps as Patsy starts to leave a trail of kisses down her bare torso, leaving red lipstick marks as she does.

“Patsy, please-” she pleads.

Patsy doesn’t answer, instead undoing the two buttons on the waist of her skirt and pulling it down, leaving Dolley pressed against the desk in nothing but her underwear and Patsy still in her tight-fitted white dress. Dolley shudders as Patsy kneels on the floor, spreading her legs.

“God, Patsy,” she pants.

“You’re glowing,” Patsy notes. 

It’s true. Dolley always sort of glows, but especially when she gets worked up. Here in the dimness of the library, it’s more visible than ever. Dolley feels herself blush.

“Sorry, I-”

“No, no, it’s beautiful,” Patsy assures her. “My own little star.”

“Stars die out,” Dolley points out.

“That’s true,” Patsy says, backpedaling. “Then, you’re-”

“No, I like it,” Dolley says. “I fully intend to burn out. No one wants to shine forever.”

“How very poetic,” Patsy says wryly. She placed her hands on Dolley’s thighs. “You’re clever. It’s hot.”

Dolley finds herself grinning.

“Surely you know all about cleverness, fox,” she teases.

Patsy’s eyes narrow, and her hands travel to Dolley’s underwear, pulling it down.

“I’ll show you cleverness,” she smirks.

Patsy was right. Dolley is a star. Since stars are so many light years away, looking up at the night sky is like looking into the past. Dolley feels like she’s stuck in a limbo of the past year, where everything was alright. Before the sickness. When a star dies, you’d hardly notice. The darkness takes billions of years to reach Earth. Dolley feels like she hasn’t been alive in awhile, and no one’s noticed. She can pretend, utter her “I’m fine”s, but she died with her son.

Maybe Patsy can be the last hurrah. One last beautiful thing before Dolley becomes the supernova she is inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spazzatura: you had to look the names for the portraits up, didn't you?  
> Me: no, I have all of George III's relatives' names memorized, what kind of amateur do you take me for
> 
> Hello hello!  
> I think this is the fastest I've gotten a chapter up. Be proud of me, people. Sorry the chapter was like 80% romance I'm self indulgent lmao  
> ANYWAY I'm going to be at a sleepaway camp next week so I won't be able to type, so it may be awhile before the next chapter. Whoops.  
> I'll still be able to check in, though, so feel free to comment!


	7. In Which Reynolds Shot First

_ Main Hall, 5:49 AM EST _

The cold metal of the barrel of a gun pressed against his forehead was not a sensation Clinton enjoyed waking up to, or experiencing ever, to be honest. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and opened his eyes.

James Reynolds. Of course. Clinton could not be less surprised. Out of all the guests they’d been hosting for the past four days, he should’ve guessed this numbskull would be the one to crack. He has his revolver pressed to Clinton’s forehead. Clinton’s still sitting against the guards’ entrance to the hall where he’d fallen asleep. Howe had bullied him into taking the 12-6 shift again-  _ Christ,  _ he hated that guy. Reynolds’s eyes were narrowed, a triumphant smirk plastered across his dumbass face like he’s won.

“James, don’t-”

“Don’t interrupt me, you bitch,” Reynolds snarls, and Maria falls silent.

“Oh my  _ God.” _

It’s Philip Schuyler this time, a hint of panic creeping into his tone.

“Reynolds, put that down right-”

“All of you shut the fuck up or I’m shooting him right now!” Reynolds roars. 

The hall falls silent.

“Stand up,” he growls.

Clinton coughs. Adjusts the collar of his shirt nonchalantly.

“I don’t take orders from anyone but His Majesty,” he says, meeting his gaze with as much dignity as he can manage.

When he sees the telltale paleness in Reynolds’s knuckles as he tightens his grip on the gun, he sighs and obliges, hands spread in sarcastic defense. Beyond Reynolds’s head, he sees that the hall is nearly deserted, which is understandable at this time in the morning. Maria is sitting at a table looking terrified, and Schuyler is half risen out of his seat, his wife on the other side of the table, making a wider chasm than there usually is between the two of them. Dolley Todd is frozen midway down the stairs. Washington is watching the situation play out with his hawk like blue-grey eyes. The centaur, Liz, is standing near the back of the room. No one seems to breathe.

“Just a reminder, Mr. Reynolds, that if you shoot me, one of you will be killed in retaliation,” Clinton says, trying to keep his voice as emotionless as possible.

“Bull. Shit. His  _ Majesty”-  _ Reynolds punctuates this with air quotes with his non-gun hand. “Thinks he can scare us into doin’ his bidding. And I say that’s bullshit!”

Reynolds steps behind Clinton, so his gun is now pointed at the back of his head. Now that his back is to Reynolds, Clinton slowly reaches into his coat’s pocket and runs a thumb over the communication rune he has stored in it.

“He’s getting a gun!” Maria warns her husband shrilly.

Clinton throws his hands in the air defensively.

“I don’t have a gun,” he says quickly. “If I did I wouldn’t still be in this situation.”

“Keep your hands in the air,” Reynolds growls. “Now tell me how to get out of this place.”

Clinton gestures to the main doors.

“Exit’s right there. Not locked or anything,” he says dryly.

“I’m not an idiot,” Reynolds snarls, and Clinton bites back a  _ could’ve fooled me.  _ “It’s freezing cold out there, and there’s no one around for miles.”

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you-”

“He’s lying,” Maria interjects.

Her blank, glassy eyes are shining, and she places a hand on her pregnant stomach. Clinton swallows. Banshees can’t detect lies. Right? He’s never heard of such a thing. But Maria says it with such certainty. And she’s right, of course, but Clinton would rather face Reynolds’s gun than the King’s wrath.

“Tell me the truth,” the sandman demands, pressing the barrel of the gun to the back of his head.

Clinton’s heart is hammering in his chest. Where the fuck is everyone else? The King is going to literally bash his head in if he says anything about the train-

“Tell  _ me  _ the truth, Reynolds,” Shippen’s smooth alto tones purr. “Do you not fear death, or are you really just that stupid?”

The succubus is standing in the doorway of the guests’ entrance, rifle aimed at the two of them. Clinton doesn’t trust Shippen’s aim one bit, and if she shot there was a fairly high chance she might hit him by accident, but the gesture is appreciated, even if it makes Clinton fear for his life. Reynolds hesitates.

“James, please don’t!” Maria begs, eyes widening.

Then, as if it could possibly help the situation, Washington rises from his seat, pulling out his wand. For a second, Clinton almost instinctively reaches for his own. Then cold hard reality hits him as he remembered Howe torched it last week. God _ damnit.  _ In weapons, he and Shippen are outnumbered amongst the guests. That is, until Gage emerges from the main door, presumably from outdoor duty. The demon usually gets stuck with it since he’s perpetually heated. Obviously, Howe is too, but Lord knows the only undesirable jobs he partakes in are the ones related to the King’s pleasure.

It takes Gage all of a few seconds to gage the situation. His posture straightens, taking advantage of his whole 6’2 (6’5 including the horns) frame. He doesn’t have a weapon, but he doesn’t need one. Washington hesitates, wavering between Shippen and Gage. Gage’s red-tinted eyes scan the room until they land on Clinton, and he spreads his hands in a questioning gesture.

“What does it look like?” Clinton snaps at him.

“Everyone, put your weapons down,” Schuyler demands, but his voice is shaking too much to be intimidating.

The next few minutes were a blur. When the gunfire was done, and Clinton had time to reflect, this is what he  _ thinks  _ happened.

Cornwallis had emerged from the door behind them, having finally come in response of Clinton’s emergency signal. Never being one to ask questions first, he’d shot Reynolds in the head. As he went out, he’d fired his gun blindly, grazing Maria’s ribs. Washington had raised his wand in defense, so Shippen had fired at him twice. Both shots had landed.

Panicked, Clinton had grabbed Reynolds’s revolver from the ground. Maria had begun to shriek, that terrible grief-stricken nail-on-chalkboard sound and Clinton  _ couldn’t  _ deal with it and he squeezed his eyes shut and he pulled the trigger. Only, it wasn’t Maria he hit. Catherine Van Rensselaer-Schuyler, Philip Schuyler’s pretty blonde, an icon of a trophy wife, threw herself in front of the banshee. It was a sacrifice Clinton never saw coming. At any rate, it registered with him that he’d just tried to kill a pregnant young woman, which was an almost unprecedented low for him. Jesus  _ Christ _ . The gun slips from his fingers.

“You just-” Dolley chokes out.

Clinton can see her shaking from across the room. Liz is cowering in the corner, Schuyler on his knees next to his wife’s body. Catherine’s dead, Reynolds is dead, Washington is… at least dying, Maria’s probably bleeding out from Reynolds’s last shot. Clinton hugs his arms around himself. He never really had the stomach for violence. How he’s survived all these years, he doesn’t know. Cornwallis’s clawed hand lands on his shoulder, and Clinton can’t tell whether it’s a comforting gesture or a warning. Knowing Cornwallis, it’s the latter.

Dolley descends the stairs slowly, gaze flitting from victim to victim in horror. She looks up and makes eye contact with Clinton. Her glow is getting steadily brighter.

“You,” she says. Her expression changes. “ _ Bastard! _ ”

A huge gust of wind hits Clinton from behind and he stumbles forward, trips, and then he’s falling. Weightless for a moment, then he crashes against the stairs, tumbling all the way to the bottom. Clinton’s whole body is alight with pain and his head his  _ pounding  _ but a gun went off and he needs to  _ get up.  _ He manages to open his eyes, just to see Dolley standing over him, face drawn in a snarl. 

She raises her hands, but stops. Her lips part slightly. Her eyes roll back into her head, and blood trickles from her mouth.  _ Gage.  _ Her mouth moves like she’s gasping for air for a few seconds, before she doubles over and collapses on Clinton’s chest. Revolted, Clinton has just enough strength left to push her limp body away before he passes out.

\---

_ Infirmary, 9:34 AM EST _

The door to the infirmary creaks slightly when opened. Philip shuffles in and closes the it as quietly as possible. The stench of blood, mixed with the strong, earthy scent of herbs, hits him immediately. He almost gags.

“Philip,” Eliza greets him, her voice thin and tired. “What brings you here?”

The infirmary has white hospital beds down both walls. Philip’s stomach turns as he notices four of the beds have white sheets drawn over bodies. Reynolds, Washington, Catherine, and Dolley, if what Alex told Price was correct. There’s one occupied bed with the patient uncovered, Maria. She’s asleep, but Philip can see her chest rising and falling evenly. Relief floods him. Martha Washington is sitting on a cot near the back, head in her hands. Liz is by Eliza’s side.

“I, uh,” Philip mutters, holding out the two coffee mugs he’s holding. “Thought you guys might want coffee.”

Eliza brushes her inky black hair behind her ear with a thin, trembling hand. Her eyes are bloodshot, the circles under them darker.

“Thank you,” she says, and a ghost of a smile graces her tired face. “That’s very kind of you. You can put them on the table.”

Philip sets the steaming mugs down on the table by the door. He sticks his hands in his sweatshirt pocket.

“I’m sorry about your mom,” Philip blurts.

Eliza’s smile fades, and she looks down at the ground. She nods slightly.

“If there’s anything I can do, or anything…” he offers quietly.

“Actually, Eliza and I were just about to redo Maria’s bandages, could you get some from the cabinet in the back?” Liz asks.

Philip nods, glad to feel useful. He makes his way down the aisle of cots, avoiding looking at any of the occupied beds. He pauses at Martha’s slumped figure, wondering if he should say anything, then decides against it. The cabinet in the back is stocked, and it doesn’t take Philip long to find the bandages. He takes a roll and heads back down to Eliza and Liz. 

“Thank you, Philip,” Liz smiles, taking it from him. 

Philip sits on one of the empty cots.

“So… what happened?” he finds himself asking.

Eliza doesn’t respond, focused on Maria. Liz sips her coffee pensively.

“Well…” she starts, trailing off. “I was in the room where it happened, but even I don’ really know. Reynolds was threatening to shoot Clinton, so Clinton called for backup, and then someone shot, and everyone went crazy. There were so many guns going off, I don’t know who shot who. Then Dolley tried to attack Clinton, and that demon guard cursed her. She and Mr. Washington were both still holding on when we brought them here, actually.”

Liz lowers her voice, glancing back at Martha pityingly.

“I… ran to get Mrs. Washington, but… he was gone before she got here, God rest his soul. Hasn’t said a word since,” she sighs. “Dolley survived for a lot longer. We thought she might pull through, but…” she shook her head. “She pledged her room key to Patsy. Dunno why, but she insisted Patsy have it. She seemed so resigned. Almost peaceful. If you’d come about half an hour earlier, you would’ve been able to talk to her.”

Liz wipes at her eyes. Her last sentence hits Philip like a blow. Thirty minutes ago Dolley Todd was alive. This morning all these people were. And they were just… gone. It was terrifying. A gasp breaks him out of his thoughts.

“She’s awake,” Eliza says, as Maria tries to sit up. “No, no, sweetie, lie back down-”

“James! Where’s James?” Maria insists.

Eliza and Liz share a conflicted glance, which travels over to one of the sheet-covered bodies. 

“Where’s James?” Maria repeats desperately. “Is he okay?”

“Maria, please, lay down,” Eliza begs her. “Hey, hey, look at me, look, you’re safe. You and your daughter are safe.”

Maria’s lips move wordlessly for a second.  _ Daughter,  _ she’s mouthing.

“Susan,” she whispers, brow furrowed.

“What?” Eliza says, looking startled.

“We agreed on Susan if it was a girl,” Maria explains, sinking back into her pillows. “James… J-James always said he wanted a boy…”

She lets out a shaky laugh which quickly turns to a sob. Eliza murmurs something soothing to her, then holds something under her nose until her sobs die out and she falls asleep peacefully once again.

“Anise and skullcap,” Eliza explains, sounding drained. “She should be out for awhile. Long enough to figure out what the hell I’m going to tell her.”

Liz rubs Eliza’s back comfortingly, and the sorceress melts into her embrace. Liz is much taller than Eliza with her equine lower half, so Eliza’s head barely reaches her chest. It’s a tender moment between the two of them, and Philip feels almost intrusive witnessing it. 

“Knock knock,” a voice calls as the infirmary door opens.

Eliza pulls away from Liz and her face lights up.

“Peggy,” she acknowledges, voice breaking. “You-”

“I’m just here to help with the exorcism,” Peggy says coldly, crossing her arms. 

Eliza wilts.

“I-I know, but…” she stammers. “No Angelica?”

Peggy shakes her head. Her usually ponytailed hair is loose and curly. 

“I’m the next best for it, aren’t I?” she says, leaning against the wall.

“Our mother just  _ died,  _ Margarita!” Eliza shouts, tears beginning to well in her eyes. “I don’t care about this stupid feud! I just…”

Her anger is gone just as soon as it came. She sniffs and shakes her head.

“Forget it. Where’s Dad?”

“He drank a bottle of hard liquor and passed out,” Peggy informs her flatly, crossing over to one of the beds. “To no one’s surprise. So yeah, he will not be attending.”

“Are you sure we shouldn’t wait for him?” Eliza questions.

“And risk Mom turning into a wraith on us?” Peggy fires back.

“She would  _ not _ ,” Eliza hisses.

Price had been doing his best to fill him in on everything he knew about the monster world the past two somewhat uneventful days. Philip wracks his brain to try and understand what the sisters are saying. Price’s voice chimes in in his head.  _ When monsters die, sometimes their soul gets left behind in the form of a ghost. If it’s because there are people mourning who won’t let them move on, they’ll be a ghoul, like Church. If it’s because they had unfinished business, they’ll just be a regular ghost. Sorcerers are a special case, because they can also be wraiths, but only if they’ve committed atrocious crimes. Ghosts can be exorcised to send their soul to the afterlife. Sorcerers need to be exorcised ghost or not when they die, and if that’s neglected for 24 hours after they die, they’ll leave behind a death glow, like the one on the third floor.  _

Basically, Peggy is exorcising their mother. And she’s saying she’ll turn into a wraith if she doesn’t, which means she’s accusing her mother of being a terrible person. Philip shifts uncomfortably. What did Catherine do?

“Whatever,” Peggy sighs, taking a wand out from her cardigan pocket.

Eliza clenches and unclenches her fists, staring at her fuming silently for a few moments.

“Wh… Why are you being like this?” she demands, spreading her hands helplessly.

“Like you said, forget it,” Peggy mumbles. “Let’s just get this over with.”

_ They’re like the Kardashians of this world,  _ memory Price pipes up helpfully.

Peggy closes her eyes, eyeshadow glimmering slightly in the fluorescent lights of the infirmary. She raises her wand and starts chanting in… Latin would be Philip’s best guess, but he doesn’t actually know. He’s never actually heard anyone speak in Latin. As she speaks, the temperature seems to drop in the room. Mist gathers around the cot. Suddenly, it feels like there’s another presence in the infirmary. Catherine Van Rensselaer-Schuyler, transparent and ethereal, gives the world one last tear-streaked and terrified look before dissolving into steam.

The infirmary is silent for a good few minutes. Eliza is crying again. Peggy clears her throat.

“I’m sorry,” she admits, voice hollow. “Angelica and I aren’t… aren’t talking anymore.”

Eliza shakes her head.

“I just want our family to be together again, Peg,” she breathes. “What’s left of it, anyway.”

Peggy’s brow furrows. Her sunny yellow eyes glance around the room until they land on a welcome distraction.

“Should I exorcise Washington as well?” she questions. 

Martha Washington moves for the first time since Philip had entered the room. She sits up and brushes her black curls away from her face, the yellow flowers entangled in them swaying. Her eyes are surprisingly dry.

“That won’t be necessary,” she announces grimly. 

Her high-heels click as she stands up. She walks over to the covered cot which has the biggest silhouette. She looks down at her husband’s body with her chin tilted up. The body language would be almost condescending if not for her aura of graceful grief.

“My husband swore he would never choose to linger on this Earth,” Martha began. “He was a deeply religious man, and never feared death.  _ And no one shall make them afraid _ … he had a chaotic life. And now he’s found peace.”

She stops, smiling slightly. For a second, Philip thinks she’s done. Then she takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“He was a general, as you know. After the war, he vowed never to hurt anyone again. He was such a gentle man- he wouldn’t even raise his voice. I know he would never, ever raise a weapon or a fist again unless it was self defence. He certainly wouldn’t partake in anything like revenge.”

Something breaks within her, and in a moment her cool and collected facade is gone. Her shoulders square, her trembling hands curl into fists.

“I am not George,” she continued. “I never was, and I never will be. I was always the one who pushed him to action. We balanced each other out. And now he’s… gone.”

She seems to relax slightly. She’s back to being cold and aloof.

“Rest assured, I will find this so called King. And when I do, he will bleed for what he did to George.”

\---

_ Staff’s Quarters, 10:27 PM EST _

“You’re an idiot.”

Clinton doesn’t give Howe the luxury of a response. Despite all of Charlotte’s medical work, his head is still pounding too much to waste brainpower on that. Instead, he just shuts the door to their room behind him and throws the keys on the hook. Howe isn’t deterred, though.

“You’re a bloody fucking idiot and if it were up to me I’d have you kicked out right now,” he growls. He’s perched on his desk. Desk chair? What’s that? He’s such a goddamn drama queen. “However, His Majesty, for whatever reason, has decided to  _ graciously  _ spare you.”

“He wants me to die,” Clinton states bluntly, sitting on his bed. “You don’t have to act like I don’t know that. He’s waiting for me to die so I can turn into a wraith, because I will, because today I tried to shoot a pregnant woman because she was being loud.”

Howe raises a thin brow.

“You’re a psychopath,” he observes.

“You’re a prick.”

“Anyway, that’s ridiculous,” Howe continues dismissively. “If His Majesty wanted you dead, he’d just kill you.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Clinton debates. “He wouldn’t risk me not being on his side.”

Howe freezes, his gaze pure murder.

“Are you saying-”

“Jesus Christ, Howe, chill. I wouldn’t betray your boyf- uh, sugar daddy? Master?” Clinton speculates, knowing he’s walking on thin ice.

Howe is on his feet in a second, the carpet singeing under his feet. 

“You little-” he hisses, displaying thin, razor-sharp teeth.

“Fine, burn me again,” Clinton challenges him. “You know, people are going to start wondering what we do in here.”

Howe glares at him. He lets out an irritated sigh and sits back on his desk.

“I’m letting this go now, Henry, because you have a concussion-”

“Two, actually,” Clinton corrects him. “And don’t ‘Henry’ me.”

“-But you’re still a sociopathic asshole.”

“And you suck dick so you can push all your duties onto a deaf demon,” Clinton shoots back cheerfully.

Howe decides to ignore him, thankfully. He brushes a few loose feathers off onto the carpet. His side is littered with them, as well as burn marks. It’s funny, really. Howe is the one that comes off as professional and collected, but Clinton is the neat freak when it comes to his private quarters. They literally have a duct-tape line down the middle of the room, the result of many arguments. His Majesty still refuses to let them switch roommates, probably because none of the other staff want to deal with either of them. Or maybe he plans on Howe snapping and killing him.

“So how’s progress on the rooms?” Clinton asks casually.

“Slow,” Howe responds. “This bunch is terrible at this. No one’s killed each other yet, though. But there’s a vampire, a werewolf, and a hybrid amongst them. So it’s only a matter of time.”

“When’s the next full moon?”

“A little under two weeks away,” Howe says. “Around the time when Lafayette’s going to be driven to desperation with bloodlust.”

“Convenient,” Clinton remarks. “So when you say the room stuff is going slow, you mean…”

Howe blinks, unimpressed.

“You weren’t listening during the briefing yesterday, were you?” he sighs.

“No, I was thinking about how I had early fucking morning duty. Tell me who’s found their room.”

Howe examines his talon-like nails as he lists them off easily.

“The Adamses were the first to find theirs, the pool. Then the five of them that had the cellar found it. Dear Sam, as you know, found the gallery. The French ones found the sauna and Lee and Eacker found the tank, but Eacker threatened to kill Lee if he told anyone about it, you know how it goes. Philip Schuyler found the lounge yesterday night, after that whole fight with his family. Paine found Jumel’s room, but Church has no idea. Paine hasn’t told anyone, either, and here’s the kicker: they know about the train.”

“Jumel  _ told _ ?” Clinton snaps. “That  _ bitch.  _ I should’ve stabbed her twice.”

“Calm your murderous urges for a second, Henry, and think,” Howe says. “Paine is a lone wolf type. They’re here for the thrill of it. They’re not going to tell everyone and spoil their fun- or they will, knowing we’ll be prepared. Hopefully not, though. We don’t want another Jumel session.”

“Hey, we got Gage out of it, at least,” Clinton pointed out. “But still. I don’t like this.”

“You don’t like anything.”

“I like the thought of you fucking off.”

Howe rolls his eyes.

“I swear you’re a child,” he groans. “I’m going to kill you in your sleep one day.”

“Oh, please. You wouldn’t do that unless the King told you to,” Clinton scoffs. “Speaking of things you’d do for His Majesty, what’s the status with Sam?”

Howe clears his throat.

“He’s… not great. He’ll come to his senses, though,” he says. “I’m going to bed.”

“Gotta rest up for that morning duty, eh?” Clinton says dryly.

“You know what,” Howe decides, sending a glare his way. “I  _ will  _ take morning duty tomorrow.”

“Wh- f-fine,” Clinton sputters. “Good. You do that.”

\---

_ The King’s Chambers, 11:59 PM EST _

Sam stood in the doorway, the small entry room dark except for the light of his halo. The angels in his head didn’t say anything. They should be screaming at him now. But they’d been silent the past three days. Maybe Sam killed them. He used to hate them, but now he was lost. He felt like he was completely submerged in water; weightless, not knowing which way was up. He didn’t know right from wrong, what was sin and what wasn’t. He’d had that compass his whole life and suddenly it was gone. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.

The last few days had been comprised of mostly crying and praying, crying and praying, crying and praying, but there had been those rare moments where he’d taken off his robes and stared at the bruises the King had left on his skin. There was guilt, sure, but there was also a giddy, bubbly feeling in his stomach he didn’t understand- he didn’t understand  _ anything  _ anymore, he was so dazed and lost but the one thing he knew is he wanted the King like he’d never wanted anything before. More than freedom. More than life. More than holiness.

So here he was. Trembling, but certain. The doors had all unlocked for him. He’d made his way past Charlotte’s sleeping form, his footsteps covered by the burble of the pool of water for Lennox. And here he’d stood, for a few minutes, just debating with himself. But he had to. He  _ needed  _ to.

He took a deep breath and entered the King’s room. He was there, like he was waiting for him, even though Sam knew he wasn’t. He speaks before the King can.

“I thought about what you said,” he blurts. “At the end. Of our last. Meeting. And yes. I want this. I mean, I’ll do whatever you want, I-”

The King shushes him, eyes glinting. He crosses the room to him and Sam can feel his heart pounding. He looks at him like he’s made of glass, touches him like he’s going to shatter. But he doesn’t. He’s made his choice and he’s here. And the King’s lips are on his again and Sam is on fire in all the worst ways but there’s no angels in his head. Just Sam and the King, and it feels like eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'll let you off now, Henry, because-"  
> Spazzatura: of your beautiful ass  
> "You have a concussion-"  
> Spazzatura: dammit
> 
> Heyo! I want you guys to know that I have a list of all of the character's names and I get so much satisfaction from crossing them off when I kill them off. That is all. Thank you for reading, see you in the next update!


	8. In Which If Only Sam Could Fly Away From His Problems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick warning that, starting with "Third Floor Hallway, 2:00 AM EST", it gets a little more graphic than usual, has some dubious consent, attempted suicide, and heavy religious undertones. Stay safe!

_ The Lounge, 9:34 AM EST _

Philip sits back against the plush back of one of the sofas in the lounge, nursing a coffee mug. He feels like he didn’t used to be a fan, since the taste is unfamiliar and bitter on his tongue. He’s acquiring a lot of tastes during his stay here. Price is next to him, elbows touching in order to accommodate the people on the sofa. The lounge isn’t small, but there’s not quite enough seating for everyone. All of them aren’t even here. Maria is still in the infirmary, Angelica is absent, and there’s definitely more people gone, but Philip can’t keep track of everyone.

Martha clears her throat. She seems to have taken the reigns since her husband died. After demanding permission to use the lounge key from a very hungover Schuyler until he gave in, she announced back at the Main Hall that they were to meet there after breakfast. No one had argued.

“Is everyone here? I know Liz stayed with Maria, but everyone else? Where’s the rest of your family?” Martha asks, turning to the two present Schuylers.

“My father is too ill to attend, Cath was being stubborn, and Angelica’s kind of… stuck it out on her own,” Eliza explains, smoothing her skirt without making eye contact with anyone. “She’s practically moved into the library. She thinks she can figure out what’s going on by herself.”

“Well, can she?” Martha asks expectantly.

Eliza and Peggy exchange glances.

“Probably,” Eliza says, at the same time Peggy declares “No way.”

“Peggy!” Eliza chides her.

“I’m just being honest!” she says, throwing her hands up in defense. “She’s smart, but not  _ that  _ smart!”

Martha scans the room, frowning.

“Eacker and Lee are missing as well,” she observes. “I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them has killed the other by now. I haven’t seen Paine in days. God knows where they get their food. Is that it?”

“Sam,” Lafayette pipes up. “I have not seen them in days either.”

“Has anyone seen Sam?” Martha asks. “Anyone?”

The room is quiet. Adrienne shifts, bangles clinking together softly. James coughs into a handkerchief. 

“He’s probably dead,” Theo comments helpfully.

“Well then,” Martha says briskly. “Next matter of importance. Miss Sanders was so kind as to return this to me.”

There are a few scattered gasps as she pulls out Reynolds’ revolver from her purse. She sets it down on the table.

“Relax, it’s unloaded,” Martha assures them. “We just need to decide what to do with it.”

“Destroy it,” Abigail says.

Her husband nods in agreement.

“No, that’s a terrible idea,” Theodosia interjects. “What if there’s another fight like there was yesterday? We’ll be helpless.”

“Mrs. Burr brings up a good point,” Martha agrees. Her expression darkens. “Only, that wasn’t a fight. It was a massacre.”

“Not  _ really, _ ” John frowns, cradling a sleeping Frances. “I mean, Reynolds initiated it, didn’t he?”

“No, wait, I thought Clinton did,” Church says, raising his hand halfway up to speak like they’re in a classroom.

“Clinton definitely initiated it,” Alex states firmly.

“That’s not what Philip said,” Thomas argues.

Philip starts.

“I didn’t say anything!” he protests.

Thomas waves a hand dismissively.

“Other Philip.”

Right, Schuyler.

“You’re trusting the hungover guy,” Alex deadpans, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, why don’t you just fuck off back to whatever cesspool you came from-”

“Ex _ cuse  _ me? Don’t you dare drag my class into this, you-”

“Aaron, you heard him say-”

“I’m not getting in the middle of this, ‘Dosia!”

“You never stand up for  _ anything _ -”

Arguments die in throats as the lights in the room flicker out. The few seconds the lounge is dark seem like eternity. Fear squeezes at Philip’s heart as his brain screams  _ someone’s picking up the gun, you’ve seen movies, someone’s going to be dead when this is done-  _ the candles relight themselves. Everyone is in the same positions as before. Martha is scowling and holding her wand aloft. 

“I hope you’re all finished,” she sneered. “People are dead, and we will be too if we don’t start making decisions. But by all means, keep squabbling about whose fault this is.”

Philip got the distinct aura from the group of a bunch of sullen students that just got told off by their teacher. Martha’s lips draw into a tight smile.

“Thank you. I’ve come to the decision that it may be best for me to keep the gun in case of emergency. Anyone have any complaints?”

“Uh, yeah,” Benedict speaks up. “Who died and made you leader?”

The doppelganger’s eyes shift to Martha’s earthy brown as she makes unwavering eye contact with him.

“John Jay. Maria Cosway. James Reynolds. Catherine Van Rensselaer-Schuyler. Dolley Todd. My husband,” she lists off easily. “To name a few. If you think you can organize this group better than me, then you are wholeheartedly encouraged to stand up and give it a go.”

Benedict’s Adam’s apple bobs. He slinks down in his seat a bit.

“That’s what I thought. Any other concerns?”

Somewhat predictably, no one speaks up.

“Alright then, matter settled,” Martha says briskly, picking up the revolver and putting it in her purse. “Next order of importance. I think I’d be beneficial to the group if anyone in possession of a gun comes forward and says so.”

“Seriously?” Adams questions.

Martha stares him down.

“I’m not one for jokes, Mr. Adams.”

The room is quiet for a moment, everyone glancing at their neighbors. It reminds Philip of when you take a test and you’re finished, but you’re waiting for someone else to go up first, because what if you finished too quickly because you missed something and you don’t really know where to put the paper and then you wonder if the teacher thinks you’re looking at other people’s papers so you just kind of stare at your desk- or maybe that’s just Philip. But hey, this classroom analogy just keeps working.

“Oh, what the hell,” John mutters under his breath to Mattie as he stands, handing his wife their daughter. Louder, he says, “Mattie and I brought one.”

“Thank you, Mr. Laurens,” Martha says. “Do you have any ammunition?”

“Yeah, some,” John answers vaguely.

Martha nods and surveys the room as John sits down.

“Anyone else?”

A beat.

“Any-”

Thomas lets out a strangled-sounding noise.

“James, stop!”

James immediately held up his hands, eyebrows raising slightly in a  _ jeez, okay  _ kind of expression. Thomas glares at him. Patsy places a hand on his arm.

“Thomas-”

He stands, ignoring her. James puts his head in his hands.

“We have one,” he announces. “And ammunition.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jefferson,” Martha says. She addresses Thomas, but her eyes are on James. Cold smile, cold gaze, cold tone. All ice. “Anyone else?”  
Philip scans the room. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Signs of guilt, he guesses? Lowered gazes, fidgeting, chewed lips. Anything that would betray the fact that someone’s withholding something. He would understand, honestly. How could you trust the people in here with something like that? But if anyone was found guilty, the group would no doubt crucify them with no hesitation. String them up as an example for all to see. The staff wouldn’t even have to do anything. They were all going to end up killing each other.

“Alright,” Martha says briskly, after maybe a minute of silent general mistrust. “I suppose we’re done here.”

\---

_ The Chapel, 1:30 PM EST _

Hercules has never been a deeply religious person, but the castle’s chapel definitely inspired something holy in him, in all the wrong ways. He feels like he’s being examined under a scrutinizing gaze. He feels strangely guilty, standing in the clean white room with its clean white pews. The miniature crucified Jesus above the altar seems to be glaring at him. He feels unclean. Hercules doesn’t hold himself in particularly high regard- in fact, he’s fairly self depreciating. But uncleanliness? That’s new. Hercules doesn’t particularly like the chapel.

He doesn’t really have a reason to be exploring the castle like this. He already knows where the key he and Alex share leads: the cellar. He just figures that he has nothing better to do. And maybe he’s avoiding Lafayette a little bit- maybe he doesn’t want to try and discern whatever the hell they are after what happened two days ago. But mostly, he’s just bored. He had stumbled upon the chapel and entered to investigate, and now he was leaving all of a minute later after the oppressive shame crept in. He turned to leave and found someone standing in the doorway.

It’s a slave, marked by his deep red uniform. He looks like he can’t be older than sixteen. His black hair is kinda shaggy, like it hasn’t been cut in awhile. He’s Asian- Filipino, Hercules thinks? He closes the door behind him and looks back at Hercules with a sort of determination burning in his eyes. Hercules doesn’t know how to react.

“Mr. Mulligan, sir,” he says, straightening his posture. “I know how to escape.”

Hercules blinks.

“Uh, what?” he asks intelligently.

“To escape. The castle, sir,” he explains urgently. “To survive.”

Hercules’s blood runs cold. He weighs the likelihood of this being a trap and determines it’s pretty high.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asks.

The slave tugs at his sleeve, briefly makes skittish eye contact with Hercules.

“Because I thought you would listen,” he says.

Hercules understands. As the lowest class monster here, he was the most likely to listen to what a human had to say. He’s still suspicious, but it makes sense.

“And,” the slave adds hesitantly. “The Marquis will listen to you, and everyone will listen to the Marquis.”

_ The Marquis?  _ Hercules has to run the title over in his mind a few times before realizing that he must be referring to Lafayette. The realization brings up a slew of new questions. Lafayette is royalty? Why would they leave France, then? Why would they be at such a level of poverty that they were in Car 5? What did they want from  _ Hercules _ ? 

“I hardly-” Hercules sputters. “They wouldn’t- why would they listen to me?”

“Do you want the information or not, sir?” the slave asks, raising his voice slightly. He has a hand on the doorknob, and Hercules can see he’s trembling. “I’m risking a lot to be here, so if you don’t want it we can just leave and pretend this never happened-”

He stops, flinching as if waiting for a blow. The raw frayed nerves in his voice and posture lead Hercules to believe he’s telling the truth.

“Tell me,” Hercules says, keeping his voice quiet in an attempt to calm the atmosphere a little. “Please. I believe you.”

The slave glances at the door, then takes his hand off the doorknob.

“The train,” he begins. “The train you took here. It comes back every Monday to deliver supplies. So in three days. It’s- it runs on its own with magic. If you got on, it would take you back to civilization. But it won’t let you on with the bracelets. That’s what they’re for- to mark you, trap you.”

He rolled up his sleeve and showed an identical charm to the one on Hercules’s wrist, only the serpentine eyes glowed a deep red, darker than his uniform, as opposed to Hercules’s indigo.

“This has been on me since I was a kid. They don’t come off. They move, adapt. There’s no way to destroy them. They’re bonded to you from the moment you touch them.”

Hercules swallowed.

“But I could turn them off. You’d have to go fast, before any of the staff found out. But I could do it.”

There’s a shine in his eyes that tells Hercules this is a decision he’s set on. Hercules can’t imagine the King would take to kindly to a betrayal like that.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks.

“Because I’m sick of washing floors and dishes most of the year and cleaning up corpses for a month,” the slave says, meeting Hercules’s eyes with a startling intensity.

Hercules nods.

“Alright. Okay. What do I have to do?”

“I’ll turn them off at noon. That’s when the train will be getting unloaded by us, and the staff has a meeting at that time, so they’ll be out of the way. All you have to do is get on. Sally will start the train prematurely once you all are on.”

“Sally?” Hercules questions.

“She does a lot of serving for you guys?” the slave offers. “Young, short curly hair?”

Hercules knows who he’s talking about.

“Doesn’t matter. You can trust her. Then you will be safe.”

The slave puts his hand back on the doorknob.

“I have to go. Someone’s going to notice I’m gone,” he says.

“Wait,” Hercules says.

The slave looks at him nervously.

“What’s your name?”

The slave blinks, looking surprised.

“You’re going to risk your life for us. I want to at least know your name,” Hercules explains.

The slave hesitated for a moment.

“Cato,” he answered. “It’s Cato.”

In a moment, he was gone.

\---

_ Fifth Floor Hallway, 5:03 PM EST _

The library is deserted, save for Angelica Schuyler in on of the tables at the back, curls escaping from her usually immaculate bun, passed out on top of an open book. Philip decides not to disturb her. He wanders the tall rows of books for awhile, aimlessly pulling a book out once in awhile and skimming through it. He’d told Price he was going to the library to wrap his head around this whole new world and everything, but he doesn’t know where to start. He didn’t exactly see a copy of  _ The Monster World for Dummies  _ lying around.

_... Unlike most variants of the undead, wraiths cannot be banished from the mortal realm by way of exorcism. As beings of the highest untamed magical energy, normally ghost-repellent substances such as salt and lavender have no effect on wraiths. The only way a wraith can be purged is for another wraith to- _

Philip closes the book, sighing. It’s all too much, way over his head. He puts the book back on the shelf. He stands there for a moment, before movement in his peripheral view made him jump. He whirls around, then lets out an audible sigh of relief when he sees who it is.

“Sam,” he calls down the aisle.

The angel tenses, but doesn’t turn around. Philip walks over to him.

“Hey,” he greets him, a little more softly.

Sammy’s ever-wide green eyes flit towards Philip. He visibly relaxes when he sees him.

“Philip,” he breathes. “I w- I- I thought you were s-someone else.”

“Hey, I get it. We’re all a little on edge right now,” Philip says.

Sam nods ever so slightly, dropping his gaze. Something seems off about him, more than usual.

“Hey, are you okay?” Philip asks, concerned.

Sam doesn’t respond for a moment, then suddenly, as if acting on impulse, grabs something out of his pocket and takes Philip’s hand. He can feel cold metal as he slides whatever it is into his palm.

“Wh-”

“The gallery,” Sam says, making uncomfortably intense eye contact. “The third floor. I give you permission. Don’t go until you know what’s waiting.”

A chill ran down Philip’s spine.

“I don’t understand,” he says, wincing at how shrill his voice comes out.

“You will,” Sam assures him. He seems to loose whatever passion suddenly possessed him, his face falling. He stares at Philip, his expression almost pitying. “I’m sorry, I’m- I’m s-so sorry, I- I have to go.”

Pulling his hand away and leaving his key in Philip’s hand, Sam spreads his wings and  _ flies.  _ Though there are multiple members of their party that have wings, but this is the first time Philip has seen any of them fly. It’s a strangely natural motion, moving as easily through the air as he would on the ground. It’s seconds before he disappears in the bends of the towering library shelves, and Philip opens his mouth to call him back too late.

He stares at the key in his hand. It’s much smaller than his and Price’s. It’s gold and has an intricate handle, with a bright red gemstone at the end. He turns it over, staring at it glittering in the light, looking for any kind of clue as to why the gallery it leads to is so important.  _ Don’t go until you know what’s waiting. _

\---

_ Third Floor Hallway, 2:00 AM EST _

How beautifully ironic, really, that all of this has lead Sam back to the Bible. The good book must be half the weight of the bag he holds in his left hand. The other half, the cross, the candles, the rope, the knife. In his other hand, the master key the King gave him.

He feels bad, but he doesn’t really. He knows he should- he acknowledges that this is bad, but it doesn’t register. It’s faint and distant, like all of his thoughts. He’s so numb to everything, everything but the king. Or maybe he’s always been numb, maybe the King was the first thing that made him feel, the first thing that drowned out the angels screaming in his mind that guided his every step. Maybe he’d been told what to do and what was holy all his life and now that he was free he was lost at sea, and the King was the steady voice saying  _ follow me, child  _ and it was wrong! But it was something!

The lock doesn’t click when he turns the key. The door slides open silently. He closes it behind him and regards the Adamses by the light of the moon streaming through the window. They’re in their bed, fast asleep. Even in unconsciousness, they’re angled towards each other. Sam wonders if it aches like it does for him. He drops the bag on the ground, fishes out the candles. He places them around the room, lighting them as he goes. Then he finds the rope. He stands beside the bed, stares at the sleeping couple. His mind is blank. His hands are steady. 

John Adams is a new ghost. You can tell by the way he still can interact with the world around him, the color that’s still left on his translucent silhouette. He’s close enough still to the realm of death that this shouldn’t be hard. He’s never done this, but he’s seen it done, on the few rebellious enough to linger instead of entering the Lord’s kingdom. They would make an example of it. He remembers all the words. Sometimes he’ll wake up in a cold sweat with them still ringing in his ears.

Sam grabs Adams by the wrist, dragging him off the bed with all his might. Sam isn’t the strongest, and Adams isn’t the lightest, but luckily for him, he’s a very heavy sleeper. He doesn’t wake up until he hits the ground.

“What the hell?” he mumbles, still half asleep.

He starts to get up, but Sam forces him down, grabbing his wrists behind his back and starting to tie them. Adams wakes up fully, starting to thrash.

“Wh-  _ Abigail! _ ” he shouts.

Sam doesn’t pay any attention, moving on to tying his feet.

“Get the fuck away from him!” Abigail screams, scrambling to her feet.

Sam ties the final knot, then runs to the bag, dodging Abigail. He frantically digs for the knife, luckily grabbing the handle instead of the blade. He turns on Abigail, holding the knife in front of him. He’s never wielded a weapon before, and it probably shows, but the message is enough. Abigail freezes, eyes wide.

“Put your arms behind your back,” he demands.

“Sam,” she whispers, trembling. “What-”

“Do it,” he hisses.

Abigail stares for a moment, before obliging.

“What the hell is wrong with you, boy?” Adams yells.

Sam ignores him, tying her arms.

“Knees,” he says.

Abigail gapes at him.

“ _ Knees,”  _ he repeats, raising the knife.

When he finishes tying her to the bedpost, he stands for a moment surveying his work. Both of them are screaming at him, but he drowns them out. This has to be done. This has to be done. He sets the knife down on one of the desks and takes out the cross and the Bible. Adams’s reaction is instant, flinching away and shaking his head. Sam walks across the room, holding up the cross. Adams pushes himself back as far was he can, up against the wall.

“ _ In nomine Jesus Christ,”  _ Sam begins.

“No, no! Please, no!” Adams pleads.

“ _ Deum et Dominum nostrum, qui immaculatae Virginis intercessione roborati Mary,”  _ he continues. All the Latin lessons seem to have paid off. The pronunciation feels natural on his tongue. “ _ Mater Dei, et be _ _ átum Michaélem Archángelum, cum beatis Apostolis tuis Peter et Paul, et omnibus Sanctis.” _

Adams is crying out in pain, Abigail is screaming behind him. For a feverish moment, he’s back in Purgatory. He clutches the Bible tighter.

“ _ Sacri ministerii nostri auctoritate potens, agere fidenter impetus propulsare insidias diaboli,”  _ he chants. “ _ Dues est; et inimicos eorum dispersus est et eos, qui oderunt eum, a facie ejus.” _

Sam recalls the quiet suffering of the angel ghosts he’d seen exorcised, their elegant agony, the arch of their backs as the priest chanted. There is nothing quiet or elegant about Adams now, thrashing against his bonds. Even the disgraced angels faced the Lord with dignity.

“ _ Ut impellere fumum, pulsi sunt; liquescit cera a facie ignis et cum illi perierint multiplicabunter in conspectu Dei.” _

Tendrils of silvery energy are curling off of Adams like smoke.

“ _ Nos eiciam vos de nobis-” _

Sam is shaking.

_ “Quicumque haec legis-” _

Adams is fading, slowly.

_ “Et spiritus immundi-” _

Sam didn’t think he’d feel like this.

_ “Omnis satanica potestates omnes infernales impletis-” _

He’s not screaming anymore.

_ “Improbis legionibus necnon s-sectarum nu-numerum pervenitur!” _

He stumbles on the words a bit in his haste to finish, but it works. The ropes drop to the ground, empty, and the candles flicker out. The room is silent besides for Abigail’s quiet sobs. He stands for a moment, shivering, hugging his arms around himself, the cross digging into his skin. He contemplates turning the lights on, then decides what he has to do next is better done in the dark. 

“Why?”

Abigail’s question sends a chill down his spine.  _ Because I had to. Because I had to. _

“ _ Why? _ ” she demands, voice breaking.

Sam fumbles his way through the dark to the desk. Locates the knife by the moonlight glinting off it.

“I loved him,” she says. “I g-got the chance to see him again after I thought it was over- too soon- it wasn’t supposed to be like this! I never got to say goodbye!”

Sam feels like he’s going to throw up. He feels unclean, unclean, unclean. His body aches to pray, but he feels like he’s lost that right.

“And now you’re going to kill me,” Abigail says, voice ragged. “Was it you the whole time? I mean, the poison, Cosway?”

“No,” Sam blurts, startling both of them.

There’s a moment of quiet.

“Then why are you doing this now?”

“Stop talking,” Sam says, and it comes out more of a plea than an order. “Please, just stop talking.”

“Why are you  _ killing people,  _ Sam? It’s a relevant question!” she hisses, her voice raising.

“Stop, please-”

“You’re an angel, Sam! How could you do this?”

“ _ Stop-” _

“ _ Do you think this is holy?!” _

Sam doesn’t remember moving, or how he got here, but he’s on his knees, at Abigail’s level. His arm is extended- he- there’s something warm rushing on his hand. In the dim lighting, he can just barely see Abigail’s shocked expression. A small, shuddering gasp escapes her before she collapses.

Sam removes the knife, in shock. He just-  _ what was he supposed to do she was so loud and he just wanted everything to be quiet for one minute and- and-  _ and what? He wasn’t a formerly pure being who had been stained with sin anymore. He was a new being, a terrible being, birthed from sin and would die in sin. He stared at the blood on his hands and started to cry, to sob like angels never did. He cried until his head pounded and his body shook with exhaustion.

He dimly noted the lights in the room turning on, someone entering and shutting the door. The King walks over to him, observes the scene with a quiet tutting sound.

“Oh, darling,” he sighs, placing a hand underneath his chin and forcing his head up to look at him. “My perfect angel.”

“N-no,” Sam gasps.

The King frowns, removing his hand.

“No, that’s not quite right, is it?” he murmurs.

Sam stares at him, wide-eyed and helpless. He’s trembling. Lord, what went wrong? Lord, what had he become?

“I did everything you said,” he chokes out.

“Yes,” the King affirms gently. “Yes, doll. You did.”

He kneels, reaches out his arms to pull Sam into an embrace. Sam scrambles to his feet and stumbles back, seized by panic.

“Don’t touch me,” he says wildly.

The King’s expression darkens.

“What?”

Sam’s hand his trembling so badly he can barely raise the knife to his throat. The King’s eyes widen.

“Sam, don’t you dare,” he snaps, and he seems nervous for the first time since Sam has met him.

Sam presses the edge of the blade to his throat. Not enough to actually cut, but if he moves in the slightest, he’ll slit his throat.

“Don’t you dare move that hand, boy,” he growls.

“Why?” he whispers, a haunting echo of Abigail. “Wh-why shouldn’t I? I’m filthy- I’m terrible- I’m- I’m irredeemable, I-”

He flinches back from the King’s glare. His eyes are burning red coals, smoldering in the remains of a dying fire. He bares his teeth as he speaks.

“If you’re so irredeemable, why would death be any sort of escape?” he says through gritted teeth. “Why hasten your passage to Hell?”

Sam sobs with energy he didn’t think he had left. It was true, it was undeniable, and he always knew it in the back of his mind, but it  _ hurt.  _ All his life he had ached and suffered in the name of being holy and it amounted to  _ nothing.  _ He was a mistake. He was faulty. He was worse than a waste of space, a virus rotting the cleanliness out of the world around him. Of course he was going to Hell. Of course.

“I deserve it,” he sobs to the King, raising the knife.

“Maybe,” the King agrees softly, gaze boring into Sam. “But I don’t think you have the nerve.”

Sam stares at him, chest heaving in silent sobs. His head is pounding. The knife is trembling.

“Stay, darling,” the King purrs, a smile curling his lips like he’s already won. “You wouldn’t like it there.”

Sam drops the knife. There’s blood on his hands, on his front, staining his white robes. The King crosses to him, pulls him up against his body, arm wrapped around his waist tightly. His body is warm. Sam’s head is against his chest, and there is no steady pulse of his heart.  _ Maybe this is Hell. Maybe this is Heaven. _

“Don’t ever think you’re capable of leaving me,” the King murmurs. It’s a threat, not even veiled, but Sam doesn’t mind. This is constant. This is the voice when he’s drowning, teaching him how to swim.

“I’m s-sorry,” Sam whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

“Make it up to me, hm?”

_ Knees.  _ He’s down as soon as the King says it. He closes his eyes, lets it happen. This is his new doctrine. When he parts his lips to take the King, burning like the rest of him, he knows this is faith. Faith that when he chokes and gags he’ll come out breathing, that the King knows his limits and will only push them a little. The King clicks his tongue, and Sam understands. He looks up at him, eyes stinging with tears he doesn’t have enough energy to shed.

“Good,” he hisses. “Good.  _ God _ , doll. You look gorgeous like this.”

The words send a shudder through Sam. For once, he allows himself to indulge in it, to savor it. The guilt is gripping at his chest but he doesn’t  _ care  _ anymore. Perhaps the angels in his head were just dormant before, and with the knife lying on the ground near him, he’d actually killed them. He was burning with power and shame and sorrow and pleasure and he lets it engulf him.

The King finishes without warning, but Sam is used to it by now. He swallows the bitterness, then sits back, exhausted. The King says something, but he doesn’t quite hear it. He vaguely notes the King hauling him to his feet by his wrists, them exiting the Adams’s room. They had back in the direction of the gallery, through the hall, up the staircase. Charlotte is already asleep when they pass through her chambers. They enter the King’s chamber, and the King tosses him to the ground.

Sam looks up at him, confused and wounded. The King looks down at him with narrowed eyes.

“You disobeyed an order back there,” he says coolly. “If you weren’t so damn intriguing, I would’ve let you slit your throat.”

Sam stares at him, brow furrowed.

“You’re different than  _ them, _ ” the King continues, gesturing broadly. The other guests. The staff. Charlotte, perhaps. “You can’t leave. Even if you want to. I won’t let you.”

“I don’t want to leave,” Sam whimpers. “I don’t.”

The King smiles sadly.

“Oh, I know you don’t, darling,” he sighs. “It’s just a precaution.”

Before Sam can ask what he means, the King waves his hand, and a length of red ribbon appears. Sam realizes what’s happening a moment too late. He tries to scramble to his feet, but the ribbon wraps around his wrists before he can, dragging him back.

“No!” he screams, his voice raspy from earlier. “No, no, please no!”

The ribbon ties itself to the desk, lifting Sam’s hands above his head. He gets to his feet, puts all his body weight into pulling against them. Neither the ribbons nor the desk budge. He looks at the King pleadingly.

“Please,” he begs, his voice breaking.

The King doesn’t react, turning to go into the other room.

“Try to keep it down,” he says as he leaves. “Or that ribbon may just find itself around your mouth as well.”

Sam sits on the soft carpet of the dark room, too tired to cry anymore. This is what he deserves, maybe. Since he himself had just tied someone up and ignored their pleas, this is what he gets. Maybe Hell was too light a punishment for him. The worst part was, he’d  _ changed.  _ He ruined himself at the King’s command and this is what he got. Sam gave him everything, and he took everything.

He spent that night without sleep, wishing he’d pressed that blade a little harder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The King can kindly go stick his pee pee in a bender" - Spazzatura
> 
> so...... yeah. Jesus, m'dude, I'm sorry.
> 
> Cato was an actual person, a slave of Hercules Mulligan who helped spy on the British. No one really has any record of what happened to him after the war. But yeah, he was badass and deserves more presence in fics.
> 
> Fun fact: in this universe, angels don't belong to any specific religion. Sam is Episcopalian because that's Samuel Seabury historically was, but he didn't necessarily have to be. Also, this chapter takes the document up to 99 pages. Damn.
> 
> See you next update!


	9. In Which Issues Definitely Could Have Been Resolved Better

_ Garden, 7:13 AM EST _

The climate around the palace seemed to have two modes: snowy, and blizzard. It wasn’t terribly cold, not subzero temperatures or anything, but it was just nonstop. Considering the amount of time they had been on the train, they most likely weren’t in New York anymore, but Canada. The perpetually snowy climate seemed to confirm that. This morning was clear for the first time since they’d gotten here. There was nothing to distract from the rosy pink glow of the beginning of the sunrise. Maria seemed to have the same idea, her head turned to the horizon in the east, legs crossed as she sat on one of the garden’s benches.

Eliza hugged her fur coat tighter around herself with her free hand, then moved it to nursing her tea mug. The sunrise is beautiful, an array of soft yellows and oranges and pinks that send the snow on the ground glittering. Eliza sips her tea as she basks in the moment, one peaceful couple of minutes in the midst of this nightmare. Finally, the kaleidoscope of colors is done, leaving watery early morning sunlight streaming over the grounds. Snow crunches under her feet as she walks. Maria doesn’t look over at her when she sits down- or maybe she does. It’s hard to tell with her blank banshee eyes.

“Good morning, Maria,” Eliza says gingerly. “Beautiful sunrise.”

“Yes, very beautiful, ma’am,” Maria agrees softly, folding her hands on top of her very pregnant stomach.

Eliza takes another sip of her tea, lukewarm now.

“You really shouldn’t be up and moving around so soon,” she sighs.

Maria gives a small nod, hair covering her face a little.

“I heal fast,” she says.

“You have to keep your daughter in mind,” Eliza urges her.

Maria’s eyes narrow.

“You don’t know what I’ve gone through with my child in mind, ma’am,” she says quietly.

Eliza immediately regrets what she said. She remembers Reynolds, his harsh aggressiveness and possessive touches towards Maria, and understands. Maria seems so young- barely out of school, Eliza would guess. Eliza can’t imagine how hard things have been.

“I’m sorry,” Eliza says. “That was inconsiderate.”

“It’s fine, ma’am.”

They sit in silence for awhile. Eliza finishes her tea.

“Do you trust these people, Miss Schuyler?” Maria asks softly.

“The King, you mean? His staff? Of course not,” Eliza says, brushing her hair away back.

Maria nods.

“And the others that were invited here?” Maria prompts her.

Eliza takes a moment to think before answering.

“No,” she answers. “Not really. I trust my family, even through this stupid feud. And Liz. And maybe Philip, since I can’t see him ever having any kind of malicious intent. But the others, I don’t. Not Martha. My mom once told me to never trust someone driven by anger, and I think Martha definitely fits under that category.”

“I trusted James,” Maria says, eyes fixed on the horizon, watching a sunrise that’s already passed. “Even though I shouldn’t have. And I trust you, ma’am.”

“You do?” Eliza asks, surprised.

“Of course,” Maria says, glancing over at her. “You want the best for me and Susan. Is that right, miss?”

“Yes,” Eliza affirms quickly. “I- yes, of course.”

A faint smile tugs at Maria’s lips.

“Thank you,” she says. “If only all sorcerers were like you, Miss Schuyler.”

“Yeah,” Eliza agrees.

Her mother was. When she was permitted speech, her words were as healing as the herbs she taught to Eliza. The smell of some of them will still take Eliza back to long summer days in the greenhouse, watching her mother flip through her dog-eared potions book and listening to her explain the properties of clover or vervain. She follows Maria’s gaze to the horizon again, both of them watching for something that’s already departed. Maria’s hand touches hers gently, and she takes it.

“If only.”

\---

_ First Floor Hall, 11:39 AM EST _

“You know what? I don’t think you actually have a plan.”

Eacker stops. He stands still for a moment- well, he’s almost always still, actually. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t tap his feet or touch his hair or yawn. Every move is necessary, purposeful. He lets the pause become uncomfortable, lets Lee be a little scared. There’s no lets about it, actually. He’s done nothing but scare Lee since he met him. Finally, he turns to look at him. The imp has his arms crossed, but his eyes won’t meet Eacker’s for more than a second, skittishly defiant.

“Do you?” he asks pointedly. 

“Uh, yeah, actually,” Lee scoffs. “Join the main group? Stop doing… whatever we’re doing?”

  Eacker tilts his head ever so slightly, staring at Lee with a look he hoped conveyed that thought that  _ Lord, you are the dumbest meatsack to ever waste the Earth’s oxygen by breathing.  _ Lee spreads his hands defensively.

“Why is that so impossible?” he demands. 

“Where does the vampire get their blood?” Eacker asks simply.

“I- wha?” Lee responds intelligently.

“Where. Does. The vampire. Get. Their. Blood, Lee?” He says, pausing between every word. He lets every silence hold the weight of the moment before a blow. He has to keep the asshole on his toes.

“I don’t- I don’t know. I don’t get it. Is it a riddle?” Lee questions, perplexed.

Eacker inhales shakily and holds it for a moment longer than necessary.

“Blood fit for vampire consumption, Lee,” he explains condescendingly. “Comes from one of two sources. Human blood, or properly extracted ichor.”

“I passed sixth grade biology, Eacker,” Lee grumbles.

“Ichor is very difficult to extract in a way that will make it actually of any use to vampires. The only one who most likely could have done it was Catherine Schuyler, and she is dead. Taking ichor from a being through direct fang contact kills the being 95% of the time. Biting humans is not only illegal and dangerous, but also extremely disrespectful to the owner. The owner being the King, whom we are not allowed to disrespect. Now. Where does the vampire get their blood?”

Lee still looks lost.

“I don’t know,” he repeats.

“Pop quiz, Lee. How often does a vampire need to feed?”

“Uh… two weeks?” Lee answers hesitantly.

Eacker smiles coldly.

“Correct. In a week, Lafayette is going to kill one of them, and we’re not going to be around when it happens.”

Eacker turns without waiting for Lee’s reaction. He strides across the hall to the door to the tank door, then holds out his hand for the key. He hears a rustle of fabric as Lee digs in his jacket pocket for it. Then,

“Oh my  _ God.” _

Eacker turns to see Theodosia Jr. standing at the end of the hall, lips parted slightly in surprise. A groan builds in his throat that he doesn’t let out.

“You’re shitting me. Where have you  _ been?  _ What are you doing? Martha is going to skin you alive when she finds you,” she says all in one breath.

“We’re not doing anything,” Lee stumbles shrilly.

“Is that your key? Did you guys figure out your door and not tell us?” Theo continues, running over to them, kitten heels clicking on the floor.

“No, we-”

Before Lee can say anything, Theo snatches the key out of his hands, pink knee-length skirt flaring as she whirls towards the tank door. She shoves the key in the lock and turns it. The door opens.

“You did! You guys are in  _ so  _ much trouble,” she says almost gleefully. “What even is this place?”

“Uh, I wouldn’t-!” Lee stammers out, but his warning is cut short by the tank door closing being Theo.

Eacker watches her through the round window on the door. It’s all he can do. Watch. She examines the room curiously. The room itself is pretty small, with nothing in it but the crank on the wall by the door. The tank on the opposite wall is immense, the dark waters stretching into inky oblivion. The blue lights just inside the glass wall provide some light, but there’s not much to see.

“She just used-” Lee gasps.

“Yep.”

“Without our permission!”

“Astute observation.”

“Isn’t that-”

“Punishable by death?” Eacker finishes for him. “Uh-huh.”

“Oh my  _ God, _ ” Lee panics. “She’s a kid.”

Eacker doesn’t say anything, watching Theo through the window. She’s heading back to the door, looking disappointed. The doorknob shakes as she tries to open it. She looks up, alarmed, making eye contact with Eacker. He can see her mouth moving, but he can’t hear her through the door. She points to the knob. Eacker shakes his head ever so slightly.

“She has the key,” Lee says, petrified. “If it won’t open from that end, and it’s locked from this end…”

He and Eacker look at each other. Then, on a moment of impulse, Lee sprints.

“Lee-”

“I’m getting help, asshole!” Lee insists, disappearing around the corner.

Eacker briefly considers reaching for the pistol he has strapped under his jacket, but decides against it. The threat he made to kill Lee was empty, anyway. He can’t kill anyone, physically cannot, not without killing himself. It’s in the magic that created him, down to his core. He turns back to the glass. He can hear Theo’s voice ever so slightly as she pounds on the door and screams at him, but he can’t make out a word she’s saying. He shrugs apologetically and she screams louder.

Perhaps a minute has gone by when she stops. Eacker at first assumes it’s because she’s worn out, but as she steps to the side and he has a clear view of the room, he can see that’s not the case. The glass of the tank has risen ever so slightly, allowing the tiniest crack between it and the floor. Water starts to trickle out. Well, that’s new. Eacker and Lee had frequented this room ever since they had found where their key lead (read: since Eacker had found where their key lead), and nothing like this had ever happened. Not the water, not the door locking. It was definitely because she hadn’t asked permission to use the key. If she- even thinking about it makes Eacker’s fingers itch, and the pistol seem to burn against his side.

Theo is crying now, banging on the door. Behind her, Eacker can see that the tank glass is raising little by little, letting clear, dark water spill into the room at a faster rate. He doesn’t make any move to acknowledge anyone as he hears a chorus of frantic footsteps behind him.

“Where’s my daughter?” demands Aaron, his usually level voice tremulous.

He shoves past Eacker, Theo perking up as she sees her father.

“Theo,” he gasps, trying in vain to open the door. “Theo, are you okay?”

“She cannot hear you,” Adrienne puts in helpfully.

They, Church, Benedict, Alex and Mattie seem to have been alerted about the situation by Lee and followed him here. Aaron is still pulling at the door like it’s going to help anything. Tears of pure terror are rolling down Theo’s cheeks.

“Where’s Theodosia?” Aaron says frantically. “Where’s my wife? Someone, p-please find her-”

“I’ll go,” Mattie says, taking off down the hall.

“Is there any way to get the door open?” Aaron asks, running his hand over his close-shaken hair anxiously. “It’s okay, Theo, I’m here, we’re gonna get you out-”

“The staff probably has a key,” Alex realizes. “We should, we should-”

“They won’t unlock it,” Eacker speaks up, having already realized what’s slowly dawning on the rest of them. “We didn’t give her permission to use the key.”

“She broke a rule,” Lee elaborates with quiet horror.

“Which means-” Alex says, like he doesn’t want that sentence finished.

“The girl is dead,” Adrienne finishes grimly.

Behind Eacker, everyone begins talking at once. 

“Like Hell she’s dead,” Aaron says, his voice low and strained. His volume raises as he turns on Adrienne. “Like  _ Hell!” _

“Mr. Burr, sir, I’m sure she meant no disrespect-” Church tries.

“They,” Adrienne snaps. “And don’t speak for me, pond scum-”

“Whoa, whoa! Way not necessary!” Alex interjects furiously. “Just because you’re mad doesn’t give you a right to use language like that!”

“I have  _ every right- _ ”

“My daughter’s life is on the line and  _ you all are arguing about species! _ ” Aaron thunders, desperation completely transforming him from the meek man he usually was. “We have to do  _ something _ !”

“A gun,” Alex says suddenly. “We need someone who has a gun, they can try to shoot the glass. If it breaks, the room won’t flood.”

“Who has a gun?” Adrienne asks. “Martha, yes, but-”

The pistol against Eacker’s side burns, and he almost,  _ almost  _ speaks up. But he can’t. It’s a ticking bomb. The blame, that is. A rule has been broken, which means someone must die. If he saves Theo, someone else will die. He will be the cause. No blood will stain these granite hands, or he will surely shatter. Lee’s gaze turns to him, and Eacker glares. Lee does not speak up.

“No one,” Alex says in defeat. “No one here. We can send someone to-”

He stops, suddenly, all eyes on him.

“Burr,” he says faintly. “Can Theo swim?”

Aaron is pale. He shakes his head. Adrienne either curses or prays under their breath in French. The water in the tank is at Theo’s waist, and rising.

“Aaron!”

The group turns as Theodosia Sr. cries out, sprinting down the corridor. The Laurenses, John cradling little Frances to his chest, and Thomas on her heels. Aaron catches Theodosia in a half embrace, half steadying gesture.

“Theo,” Theodosia gasps, touching the glass gingerly as if it were her daughter’s cheek. “Oh, Theo- we’re going to get you out of here, baby girl, don’t worry…”

Theo doesn’t make any attempt to yell or speak. She just cries harder, lifting her hand to mirror her mother’s.

“Is there anything we can do?” Theodosia asks, voice breaking. The silence is oppressive. “Anyone?”

“We could still try and find a staff member…” Alex trails off.

“Are you stupid?” Thomas scoffs.

Alex straightens defensively, fins flaring.

“I’m just trying to-”

“These people are literally killing us and you think they’re going to help?” Thomas ridicules, gesturing in the direction of the main hall in a general ‘they’.

“Do you have any better ideas?” Alex snaps.

Thomas raises his dark brows.

“Uh, yes. Why don’t we break the glass?” he proposes.

“With what?” Aaron questions.

Thomas pats his side, and a realization passes over his expression

“Shit!” he exclaims. “Patsy has our gun, I don’t know where she is-”

“I could try and burn a hole through the door,” Mattie says.

John brightens, quite literally, his freckles flashing crimson.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Can one of y’all-”

He holds out Frances. Alex takes her carefully. Frances coos and grabs a tiny handful of his inky dark hair, blissfully unaware of what’s going on around her. The Laurenses approach the door, each lighting fire in their hands. Mattie presses her hands to the door, while John holds his by the door as if lighting a match. A few moments pass. The water is reaching Theo’s shoulders.

“This isn’t doing shit,” John growls after another moment. “The door must have some kind of flame retardant, or something-”

“ _ None _ of this is doing shit!” Lee gripes.

“It’s useless,” Benedict speaks up.

“No,” Theodosia says through gritted teeth. “There’s got to be- we could-”

She fumbles for something to say, an idea, anything, but finds nothing. A sense of helplessness pervades the atmosphere. The water is at Theo’s chin.

“Theodosia,” Aaron pleads, voice breaking.

Theo bangs on the glass, stops when her parents turn towards her again. An attempt at a smile passes her lips, and she mouths three words that anyone could understand. She takes a deep breath as the black waters rise above her mouth. Then her nose. Then her eyes. The whole window is now a canvas of darkness, no sign of Theo. Then, a burst of white bubbles.Then, gold.

The Burrs collapse into each other, holding each other as they cry the way only parents who live to see their children gone can cry, the kind of cry that heaven shrinks away from. Even Frances seems to understand that something is wrong when she hears this, and she begins to wail. John takes her from Alex, cradles her close as they stand around the Burrs. Unimaginable. It’s unimaginable.

There is a need clawing at Eacker, something primal. He was created for a  _ purpose  _ and he’s not fulfilling it. He can feel himself shutting down, white ringing his vision, skin crawling. Blame, blame, blame,  _ blame _ \- why did Theo die? Well, she drowned. Why did she drown? The key. She got in with the key? Who gave her the key? Who gave- Eacker reaches the silent conclusion, reaches inside his jacket. No one notices but Lee. He can see terror in his glittering black eyes. Before he has a chance to react, Eacker points the gun at Lee, the ultimate bearer of the guilt, the catalyst to the chain of events that lead to Theo’s untimely demise, pulls the trigger. The smoke curls from the gun and the panic inside him dies. The panic in the corridor does not.

“Holy shit!” Alex exclaims eloquently.

Mattie is down in a minute, kneeling at Lee’s side.

“Lee, are you okay? Lee, are you-”

“Are you blind?” Benedict asks cruelly. “He’s dead. Or good as.”

Lee is sprawled on the ground, blood pooling around him. There’s so much of it that Eacker can’t even tell where he shot him, just that he hit his mark. Lee’s eyes are glassy, his mouth working but unable to form words. With the last of his strength, he moves his hand, extending a grey finger in an unmistakable gesture at Eacker. He goes limp.

“Oh my god,” Theodosia whispers.

“What is going on here?” Martha’s voice demands.

The click of her high heels echos off the walls as she strides down the hall, looking bewildered, followed by Hercules. She scans the scene for a second before she seems to understand, then pulls out Reynolds’s revolver from her jacket.

“Mr. Eacker-”

Before she can say anything more, Eacker drops his gun, displaying his empty palms in surrender.

“I’ve done what I need to do,” he says quietly.

“Mulligan, restrain him,” Martha orders.

Hercules doesn’t hesitate, crossing the hall to Eacker immediately and holding his arms behind his back. Eacker contemplates for a moment, then decides he probably couldn’t take Hercules in a fight. He’s huge, especially for a brownie, and his grip on Eacker is iron. Not that Eacker would want to fight him, anyway. He knew there would be consequences, and he’s prepared to deal with them.

“What you need to do?” Martha echoes, crossing her arms.

“Yes,” Eacker agrees.

“And why, pray tell, was there ever a need to kill Mr. Lee?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.

Eacker meets her eyes, refusing to be intimidated.

“I’m a gargoyle,” he says simply.

“I’m aware,” Martha responds dryly. “I assume it has to do with your creator’s purpose?”

“Yes.”

Eacker lets his minimal reply get under her skin.

“And  _ what  _ is that purpose, Mr. Eacker?” Martha presses through gritted teeth.

“To serve justice,” Eacker says, silver eyes glinting. “If a monster dies, it must have been killed. In some way. Some how.”

“Oh, bull,” Alex scoffs. “What about-”

“In any way,” Eacker insists.

“But that doesn’t make any  _ sense-  _ I mean-”

“Alexander,” Martha says.

He quiets immediately, like a scolded child.

“My purpose is to bring justice to those who are at fault for any death I witness,” Eacker continues, shifting slightly in a way that made Hercules tighten his grip. “The sorcerer who gave me life believed that was the best way to ensure justice.”

“That’s- that’s ridiculous,” Alex sputtered. “I mean- what kind of? What did Lee even do in relation to Theo?”

“He had the key when she took it from him,” Eacker explains coldly. “And he didn’t stop her.”

“And you think killing him for an honest mistake is justice,” Martha questions.

Eacker tightens his jaw and says nothing.

“That’s insane,” John scoffs.

“I totally agree, John,” Alex says, crossing his arms. “According to you, killing someone is inherently wrong, which I don’t disagree with, but your reaction to rebuke that evil is to… kill someone? Which you just said was wrong? And it was an accident, I mean, Lee clearly didn’t have malicious intent-”

“Alexander, please,” Martha cuts him off. “We’re all aware that Eacker’s reasoning is faulty. However, you must remember that he’s a gargoyle. The purpose of the magic which created him overshadows his rational thinking. He physically cannot understand your point, so there’s no reason to argue with him.”

Eacker stays silent.

“However,” Martha continues, her gaze shifting back over to Eacker. Eacker meets it, unfaltering. “That doesn’t mean we can let him get away with his actions.”

She pauses for a moment, contemplating.

“There is the dungeon.”

“Hold on,” Thomas interjects. “Isn’t that a bit extreme?”

“He killed someone, Jefferson,” John says dryly, bouncing the still-crying Frances in his arms.

“Yes, but he had to,” Thomas reasons. “It’s in his nature. Gargoyles have to fulfill their purpose. We can’t imprison someone for something they can’t help.”

“We can if not doing so puts others’ lives in danger,” Alex shoots back.

“Why would others’ lives be in danger? As long as they don’t kill someone, it shouldn’t be an issue. I’m real sorry for interrupting your plans of homicide, Hamilton, but-”

“Oh, shut up,” Alex scoffs. “Do you ever think before you speak? We’ve seen that his definition of ‘murder’ is pretty broad. Lee didn’t do anything that constituted getting shot, and yet here he is.”

Thomas sighs irritably, like Alex is a roadblock or some other minor inconvenience.

“Then we work hard to ensure that no one dies, which, really, shouldn’t we be doing in the first place, Hamilton?” he says, crossing his arms. “We have to stick together to try and survive this hellhole, and we’re already falling apart. I can assure you locking up someone for an impulse they can’t help ain’t going to help us on that front.”

“Stop acting like you’re preaching equality, Thomas,” John cuts in, expression cold. “It’s a little hard to take seriously when it’s coming from a slaver.”

Thomas blanches, then flushes.

“That’s- a completely unrelated- how do you even know…?” he sputters.

“Unimportant,” John deflects.

“Wait. Wait, wait- Laurens. Like- are you Henry’s son?” Thomas asks.

John scowls. Mattie flinches like a bomb’s about to go off.

“No,” he says darkly. “Not anymore. Anyway, you’re avoiding the issue.”

“No, you’re avoiding the-”

“Are you seriously a slaver, then?” Alex gawks.

Thomas looks like he’d rather be anywhere than here. His leathery, bat-like wings are raising defensively, like a cornered animal.

“Fuck off, Hamilton,” Thomas spits. “We’re not talking politics right now-”

“No, you’re right! We’re not talking politics right now. We’re talking basic human rights,”  John says, eyes narrowed.

“Tell me, Jefferson, if you woke up tomorrow morning and you were suddenly a human, would you drop everything? Would you just willingly subject yourself to the struggles they go through?” Alex presses, so riled up that he’s flushing teal. He’s getting up in Thomas’s face, which is a little less intimidating than he probably thinks it is considering the significant height difference between them, especially with Thomas’s horns.

“You know what, I would!” Thomas snaps at him, voice raising. “Because unlike some of us,  _ I know my place! _ ”

“Enough!” Martha roars, physically putting herself between Thomas and Alex, shoving them away from each other. “You two are acting like children.  _ Children!  _ People are dead because we can’t keep our heads on. Do you think you’re helping anything? Do you think  _ this  _ is the time for debating? There is a time and a place, and this is  _ not  _ it. Whether we would agree outside of this building or not  _ doesn’t matter,  _ because right now this is not you versus him, this is  _ us  _ versus  _ them _ . Us versus those that want us dead. I get it. Before I boarded that train, I was a politician. Now, I’m a survivor. A widow. A  _ leader.  _ And as a leader, I swore to make sure no more of us died, and I’ve failed. But I won’t fail again. In order to ensure that, I need us to get along. I know it may be difficult, but granted that people’s lives depend on it, I trust you can make your best effort. Now, we need to get ourselves organized. I’m calling a meeting. Meet in the lounge in half an hour.”

She strides over to where Eacker dropped his gun and picks it up carefully. Lee’s blood shines honeysuckle-gold under the hall’s lighting as it drips off the weapon.

“Alexander,” she says.

Alex perks up immediately. Martha crosses over to him and presses the pistol into his hand.

“I’m trusting you with this,” she says solemnly. “Please don’t make me regret it.”

Alex nods quickly.

“Of course not, ma’am,” he says breathlessly.

Thomas scoffs.

“I trust your judgement, ma’am, but given how we’ve seen how Hamilton lets his emotions impact his decisions-”

“If you trust my judgement, Mr. Jefferson, then don’t question me,” Martha chides him.

He winces like a kicked dog.

“Yes, Mrs. Washington,” he mumbles.

Martha turns to Hercules, to the indifferent Eacker.

“I trust you can keep a hold on him until we decide what to do with him,” she acknowledges. It’s not a question.

Hercules nods.

“Good. Well then, I’ll see you all at the meeting.”

She walks away, the click of her high heels echoing around the hall.

“Meeting,” Benedict mutters. “What is a meeting supposed to do about any of this?”

No one answers. Lee’s black, glassy eyes reflect the golden lighting of the hall lifelessly. Somewhere in the murky black depths of the tank, Sarah Lennox smiles a sharp-toothed smile, a kitten heel clutched in her hand like a trophy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long awaited. If anyone has actually waited this long. *Titanic voice* IS ANYBODY OUT THEERRRE
> 
> I'd like to apologize, for two separate matters. The first being the elephant in the room, that I haven't updated in nearly three months. I have a plethora of excuses, but I'm sure you're tired of hearing them, so I hope you can settle for a one-word summary of "school". Secondly, I'd like to apologize for how disorganized this fic is, how over-sized the cast is, how many details I've forgotten, etc, etc. Simply put, this fic is somewhat of a first draft for something bigger, something that isn't a Hamilton fanfiction, because it became something more than that somewhere along the hours I've spent writing it. I'm using posting on AO3 as a tool to get myself to continue typing, as a sort of motivation, and hopefully some of you readers out there can enjoy it along the way! See you sometime before 2018, hopefully (I'm kidding) (Partially)


	10. In Which Dubious Relationships Are Dubious

_ Portrait Hall, 12:05 PM EST _

“The meeting is at 12:30. If I’m late, it’ll look incredibly  suspicious-”

“Relax, Ben. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

Shippen is the only person who’s ever called Benedict ‘Ben’ and have him actually like it. Shippen is the exception to a lot of things, which is how he ended up in this situation. If it was anyone else, he’d be out of here as soon as possible. If it was anyone else, he would never throw away any semblance of morals he had because someone asked him to. But Shippen was different. She was intoxicating in her differentness. Different from other succubi. When she’d first lured Benedict into her room, with her honeyed tones and the sway of her hips, Benedict had snapped out of it. He’d said no, not expecting his refusal to make any difference. But Shippen had smiled, accepted it, and sent him on his way, and that was what made Benedict come back.

She was also different in that she wanted  _ him.  _ Not that the partners Benedict had had in the past hadn’t liked him, but they didn’t like him entirely for Benedict. No, there was always some ulterior motive, and every time it would end in “can you shift into my ex/dead lover/celebrity crush/this sex worker I really liked/hot cousin (ew)?” And that was fine. Benedict understood. It was his normal, up until Shippen came and acted like he was perfectly fine the way he was. It was almost startling.

A week and a half, he’d been here. A week he’d been meeting Shippen in her room, in his, in any dark corner they could find. He’d lucked out with his room assignment; he didn’t have a roommate, for whatever reason.  It was convenient. Almost too convenient. But he didn’t question it, didn’t question most things that concerned Shippen. He just knew he wanted her. Wanted her more than anything. If he got to stay with her through joining the King’s staff, then he’d do it, even if it meant betraying- hell, why did he care? Why did he care about the people he’d arrived with? They were idiotic. They were fighting for a lost cause.

The portrait hall Shippen had lead him to was incredibly creepy. The almost Renaissance-like style of the paintings threw him off, and the acrylic royals staring down at him. Once they got towards the end of the hall, he started to recognize the people portrayed.

“Hey, wait. Who are all these people?” Benedict questions.

Shippen smiles.

“Well, the ones near the front are all the King’s family. They’re from England, so I don’t think he sees them anymore. Or they’re dead. Either way, I guess it’s just sort of a remembrance thing. Near the back there’s the staff. Like, look, there’s me!”

There is indeed a painting of her, the plaque underneath reading “Margarita Shippen”. The painter did capture her eternal mischievous smile.

“I don’t think it really does me justice,” Shippen grins. “Don’t you agree?”

Benedict nods.

“Some things are just… better experienced in person,” he says, letting his gaze openly drift up and down her body.

There’s no shame when it’s them. No rules. Shippen smirks at him.

“Amen. Anyway, yeah, all the staff gets a painting. It’s kind of a tradition… thing. Gage does ‘em. Have you met Gage?” she asks.

Benedict frowns, contemplating.

“I don’t think so.”

“Demon? Tall? Vaguely unsettling?”

“Oh, yeah, I know who you’re talking about,” Benedict says. He does not. He just agrees with Shippen. It’s all he can ever do around her. “Who are the people with their faces blurred out? I don’t recognize their names.”

Shippen’s smile falters for a second.

“They’re the ones not on the staff anymore. Don’t worry about them.”

“Why aren’t they?” Benedict asks.

“Just follow the King’s orders and you don’t have to worry about it,” Shippen answers vaguely, irritation creeping into her tone.

Benedict studies the black substance smeared across a portrait of a kitsune.

“What even is this?” Benedict wonders out loud. He starts to reach out to touch it. “It almost looks like wraith magic.”

“Don’t touch it!” Shippen says suddenly, grabbing Benedict by the wrist and yanking him away. “Come on. You were the one worried about this running late. Let’s go.”

A little shaken, Benedict follows Shippen into a room, up a stairwell, to a door. Shippen knocks.

“It’s me,” she calls. “I’ve got Arnold.”

The door opens, revealing Charlotte- or whom Benedict guesses must be Charlotte, from the way Shippen talks about her. She’s stunning, not quite in the way Shippen is stunning, but a more regal kind. Her presence radiates authority, but her expression is soft.

“Margaret, darling,” she coos as they enter. “How lovely to see you. Oh, and you must be Benedict! So glad to have you.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Benedict mumbles, dipping his head respectfully.

“Right this way, you two. George is busy at the moment, but I’m sure he won’t mind you waiting,” Charlotte says.

She leads them through the room they’re in now, then another, then another. In this third room, the bedroom, Benedict would presume, there’s a pool of water in the ground near the wall that drops off into inky darkness below. Perched on the edge of the pool is a siren, beads of water shining on her bronze skin. She smiles when she sees them, close-lipped, hiding the fangs typical of sirens and other aquatic monsters.

“Sarah, dearest,” Charlotte purrs, walking over and leaning down to kiss her.

Benedict notes the soaked purple heel lying by the water.

“Is that-?” he finds himself asking.

“Sweet Theo Jr., yes,” Charlotte tsks. “Sarah was just filling me in. Such a… tragedy, the loss of young life.”

The counterfeiting in her pity is audible.

“Right through here, loves. Just be quiet,” Charlotte says.

When they enter the King’s chambers, Howe is in the middle of talking to the King, an intimidating but handsome sorcerer who’s sitting on a loveseat as if it’s a throne. Howe pauses, and both of them look over as Shippen and Benedict enter. Shippen silently pulls Benedict over to a couch, and the King waves for Howe to continue.

“As I was saying, sir, they’ve all found their rooms besides for Elizabeth Sanders and Price and Philip, which isn’t the slowest a group’s ever been, but-”

With a start, Benedict notices a small figure slouched on the floor before the desk. He quickly realizes that, one, it’s Samuel Seabury, the angel who disappeared a few days ago, and, two, he’s sitting in an awkward position because his hands are tied above him in red ribbon. His eyes are dull and half-lidded, giving him an almost drugged appearance. He wears a royal-red tunic and a delicate golden chain, a far stretch from the white bishop robes he used to wear. Benedict nudges Shippen and gestures in his direction questioningly, not wanting to interrupt Howe, but feeling it was a matter that needs addressing.

“King’s plaything, basically,” Shippen whispers, leaning in close to do so, her thick, dark hair tickling his skin. “I don’t know how much of it is true, because I heard it from Andr é who heard it from Clinton, and Clinton’s been a little funny since his concussions, but what I heard was that  he wanted to join the staff because him and the King had a thing, but he broke down after he completed the entry task and tried to kill himself. The King tied him up so he wouldn’t be able to, because I guess he likes him or something. Anyway, now he’s the King’s pet. It’s less terrible than it sounds, actually.”

Benedict can’t imagine how it would be less terrible than it sounds. He’s starting to have second thoughts.

“He had a  _ breakdown?  _ Is that… normal?”

“Well, you know. Angels are weird,” Shippen says airily. “Don’t worry about it, love.”

Benedict is definitely worrying about it.

The King seems to be done with talking to Howe, waving him off. As Howe leaves, his red eyes scan Benedict critically, thin brows raised. He nods slightly to himself, then makes a gesture at Shippen that Benedict doesn’t understand, then leaves. Shippen nudges Benedict forward. The King crosses his arms.

“Your Majesty,” Benedict says, figuring that’s a good way to start. He bows, deeper than his half-hearted bow at Charlotte. “I, uh. Shippen brought me here because I desire to join your staff, uh. If that’s possible.”

There’s a moment of agonizing silence, and then the King laughs. Well, almost more giggles than laughs. It’s kind of terrifying.

“Well of course, Mr. Arnold,” the King says, flashing a bright, artificial smile. “Miss Shippen has told me all about your eagerness to join, and I give you my gratitude. However.”

Benedict chews his bottom lip nervously.

“I can’t help but note how easily you are swayed through pleasures of the flesh,” the King continues casually. “It’s not a bad weakness to have, but I must address how quickly you dropped your loyalties because of it. How do I know you won’t be swayed again? How can I trust you?”

Benedict fumbles for answer, flushing. The King regards him in amusement.

“The answer, put simply, is I cannot,” he says, uncrossing his arms and leaning slightly forward. “Not without a display of your loyalty. So, Mr. Arnold, tonight I will have you return to the group.”

“What?” Benedict breathes.

“Not as a guest, mind you,” the King elaborates. “As a spy. To prove your loyalty to me, I ask you to kill a guest, take their form, and remain in that form to gather information, and I ask you do this tonight.”

Benedict stares at the King, forgetting his respect for a moment.

“With all due respect, Your Majesty, why do I need to kill someone in order to spy for you? They have no reason not to trust me.”

The King’s eyes shine dangerously. Benedict can tell that he’s made a mistake.

“Because  _ I said so _ , Arnold,” he replies, his tone even, but his eyes burning. “The first rule of my staff is that you do  _ not  _ question my orders, and if you cannot follow as simple an order as that, then you are clearly not fit for the position. Do you follow?”

“He’s very sorry, Your Majesty,” Shippen says quickly, kicking Benedict.

He nods hastily.

“Yes, of course, Your Majesty. My apologies.”

The King seems satisfied with that answer. He waves Shippen over.

“We’ll just be a moment, Mr. Arnold,” the King assures him, opening the door to the next room.

Shippen glances over her shoulder as she follows him out, smiling. Benedict opens his mouth to protest, but the door shuts before he get the chance. And so he’s left alone with Sam, with nothing but the sound of the water trickling in the other room to disrupt the heavy silence.

Benedict, not looking to make small talk with him in the position he’s in, sits back on the couch him and Shippen were sitting at before, gaze fixed on his hands in his lap. He steals a glance at Sam out of the corner of his eye. His head is down, his half-lidded gaze fixed on the carpet in front of him. Benedict can see bruises littering his pale body, some maybe from injury, most obviously not. His alabaster wings rest on the ground next to him. He flinches as he suddenly speaks up.

“It’s not worth it,” he murmurs, voice raspy, like he hadn’t used it in awhile.

Benedict struggles to find his own voice for a second.

“Par-Pardon me?” Benedict stammers.

“Don’t do it,” Sam says, his tone cautionary. “It’s not worth what you have to do.”

Benedict doesn’t answer, hands shaking. He shoves them in his pockets, to hide them, prays to whatever god Shippen’s lips erased from his memory that Sam will stop talking.

“I know you think you’ll do anything for them. I know you think that you can handle what they ask, but you can’t. You don’t account for the guilt that rots and rots and rots-”

“I don’t care,” Benedict snaps. “I’ll do anything, I don’t care. I’ll give up anything-”

“No,” Sam intercepts fervently. “No, no- I had  _ nothing.  _ You- you have sense. You have- an actual mortal life, outside this palace. I had nothing but a faith that was  _ destroying  _ me- nowhere to go back to. This was my only salvation. It’s  _ not  _ yours.”

“You don’t understand,” Benedict sighs. “With Shippen… well, it sure feels like salvation.”

“Of course it does,” Sam says, laughing without humor. He looks up, finally meeting Benedict’s eyes. His expression is startling. “It does because the fear hasn’t set in yet.”

Benedict shivers.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he manages, tearing his gaze away from Sam.

“They’re using you,” Sam continues, with quiet intensity. He’s almost pleading. “Shippen, the King. The staff won’t even be around for much longer. Not even Shippen knows that. The King will get rid of you all as soon as he-”

He stops abruptly as the door opens, and Shippen and the King file back into the room. Shippen doesn’t look happy. The King’s expression is masked in vaguely cheery ambiguity.

“Ben, let’s go,” Shippen says, crossing the room and grabbing his hand. “You’re going to be late to the meeting.”

“Right,” Benedict says, allowing himself to be lead out of the room. “Thank you, Your Majesty.

“Of course, Mr. Arnold,” the King replies with a saccharine smile. “Don’t let me down.”

Sam’s wide-eyed fear is burned in Benedict’s mind long after the door shuts behind them.

\---

Sam stares down at his bare feet, the King’s silent gaze making him squirm. After a minute, the King snaps, and Sammy feels the ribbons unravel from his wrists. His hands drop to his lap, and he rubs the red marks the bonds have left. The King hasn’t used the ribbons as much after the first night, but he still ties him up every time someone enters his chambers. So, frequently.

“Up.”

Sam follows the King’s voice as he used to follow a priest’s: immediately and without question. His legs, sore from being tucked under him for so long, don’t hold his weight entirely, and he stumbles, catching himself on the desk. Before he knows it, the King’s lips are on his. He’s learned to let it happen, let it wash over him like a tidal wave. The King is just that- a force of nature. Beautiful. Catastrophic. He pulls away, his narrowed eyes inches from Sam’s. Close enough for Sam to notice his breath- or, rather, lack thereof.

“You tried to talk Arnold out of it, didn’t you?” the King murmurs.

Sam opens his mouth, but the King shushes him.

“Don’t deny it,” he says, running a thumb over his lips. “I expected it.”

Sam swallows nervously. The King backs away, and he finds himself wishing he would come back. He’s so cold, and the King is burning. Instead, he gestures for Sam to sit. He pulls out the desk chair and does so.

“Don’t ever try and interfere with my plans again, okay?” he implores softly. “If everything in this session goes right- it could be the one. I could be free.  _ We  _ could be free.”

“I don’t understand,” Sam whispers. “Y-you always say that. I don’t understand.”

There’s a beat.

“It was never supposed to be like this.”

Sam looks over at the King. Something is happening.

“Charlotte insisted going to America would be good for the campaign. I never even wanted to go. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.”

It smells like smoke, like dying embers. The scent always hangs around the King, but now it’s stronger than ever.

“It wasn’t even an attempt on our lives. It was a  _ fucking  _ drunk driver. That’s the worst part.”

The smoke is joined with other smells. Ichor. Decay. 

“For all of a few minutes, we exceeded this mortal realm. And then we were back. But it was wrong.  _ So  _ wrong.”

Sam can only watch in horror. He suspected- but he never knew it would be so- blood drips from the King’s head, from his side. His face is the worst part, rotting, desecrated. His eyes glow, the remnants of a wildfire that refuse to die out.

“Charlotte and I were desperate. We sought anything- anything to return us. Even what might be myth. Even if it required the spirits of hundreds.”

Sam is petrified. The King twists what were once lips into a sick parody of a smile.

“Do you understand, my little creature of purgatory?”

The King lifts his chin with one skeletal finger- an action he does so often, now indescribably  _ wrong.  _ Sam bolts, shoving the desk chair aside as he crosses to the other side of the room, back to the  _ thing  _ that once was the King. He gags as his stomach threatens to spill its little contents.

“It’s disgusting, isn’t it?” the King laughs hollowly. “I suppose it’s a fair punishment for trying to circumvent Hell.”

“You should’ve stayed,” Sam breathes, mouth dry.

“Probably,” the King agrees.

He turns him around with a hand on his shoulder, a hand which is thankfully resurrected from its state of decay. The rest of his body has also returned to normal, but Sam can’t see his eyes anymore without picturing them in the sunken sockets of a corpse. He’s trembling. He wants to go back to when he knew the King was bad, but could pretend otherwise. He doesn’t want this physical proof of his sin. This knowledge of where he’d been.

The King pulls him in close, and Sam squeezes his eyes shut, focusing on his warmth, on the safety he promises. Focuses on the memory of the words he needs to hear:  _ we’ll be free. _

\---

_ The Lounge, 12:30 PM EST _

Philip wraps his arms around himself, against the chill of the room, both literal and figurative. There’s no chattering, no laughing, no arguing. The lounge is cloaked in heavy silence. His leg bounces anxiously as the room collectively waits for someone- anyone- to say something. Terrible, terrible things have happened since they’ve arrived but this felt- different. Wrong on another level. Theo was a child. Philip didn’t feel strange saying that when she was just two years younger than him, because there was something so explicitly teenage about her. Her dresses, her relationship with her parents- God, was it just a few days ago she was begging her dad to let her try champagne? Now she would never. She was just at the peak of adulthood, new opportunities just opening up to her- and she was gone. Lifeline cut short. It was cruel.

And besides that, there was Lee’s death. Philip doesn’t remember liking Lee very much, but the worst part about his death was that it was one of them. Not the staff. Not the King. Themselves. There was a new level of uneasy distrust now. They had to stick together. That’s what everyone kept saying, echoing this hypothetical solution they’d latched onto. But that isn’t working. They’re destroying themselves now, and Philip knows people won’t stick around if it means danger for them. And now, the room screams danger, bright yellow caution tape around Eacker, who sits with cold stoicness in the corner like the accused in a trial, which was fitting.

At last, Martha cleared her throat, standing. She’d ditched her heels, and she couldn’t be much over five foot without them, but she still commanded authority.

“Is everyone here?” she asks. At no answer, she scans the crowd, which seems smaller. “Ah. Angelica. Kind of you to join us.”

The dark bags under the sorceress’s eyes tell that she hasn’t been sleeping much. Philip only ever saw her in the library. She doesn’t respond to Martha, folding her hands in her lap.

“Have you produced any results from your research?” Martha questions, the tiniest bit of bite in her voice.

“Yes and no,” Angelica answers.

Her pink eyes are dull in the room’s lighting. Unlike most of the palace, the lounge is devoid of the golden lighting that gives everywhere else such a dreamlike quality. Philip supposes that’s fitting. This is where the chaos stops, where they are forced to look at the aftermath.

“Do elaborate, Miss Schuyler,” Martha implores her.

“Well,” Angelica says hesitantly. “I’m not… quite sure. But I have somewhat of an idea. I think the purpose of this… elaborate trap, I would call it, is to collect spirits.”

There’s a murmur that ripples through the room. Philip glances at Price questioningly. Price mouths  _ later. _

“I think that someone… perhaps this, this King, is attempting a lost ritual,” Angelica continues, chewing on a nail. “Some ancient dark magic we’ve mostly forgotten. I’ve only heard legends of them, but the books in this library…” she shakes her head, messy bun bouncing. “They speak of them as though they were fact. I’m trying to understand their purpose, but the books are in Latin, and I’m not terribly fluent-”

“Oh!” Thomas interjects, waving his hand for attention. “James is fluent, if you need any help.”

James nods. Angelica looks skeptical.

“I’ll consider it,” she decides.

Just then, the lounge door opens, and Benedict enters, looking flustered.

“Sorry,” he says, closing the door behind him. “Lost track of time.”

All eyes are on him as he scans the room and comes to the silent realization that the only available seat is next to Eacker. He gives a small, bitter smile before crossing the room to sit. Eacker doesn't acknowledge him. Martha clears her throat.

“Anyway,” she says. “Thank you, Angelica.”

Angelica inclines her head politely, gaze still on Benedict.

“Next order of business,” Martha continues. “We need to address those who are missing. I don't mean the deceased, God rest their souls. I mean, those who haven't been at meals or meetings.”

“Like Sam,” Philip finds himself saying. “I haven't seen them in days.”

“Huh,” Alex frowns. “Now that you mention it, I haven't either.”

“Has anyone seen Mx. Seabury lately?” Martha asks.

The uncertainty in the room is tangible. There's guilt, too, the dawning  _ oh, shit, I wouldn’t have noticed him even if I had. _

“I might have?” Lafayette offers, but it's more of a question than a statement.

“He is sometimes… strange,” Adrienne says delicately, gaze on the hem of their skirt.

There’s quiet murmur of agreement.

“I caught him sneaking back into his room that first night when we weren't supposed to leave,” Liz pipes up. “I heard something in the hall, and I was a little paranoid, so I opened to the door to check, and it was him, looking like a deer in the headlights. I asked what he was doing, and he didn't answer, just ran back into his room.”

“Who was his roommate?” Price wonders out loud.

“I believe it was supposed to be Mr. Jay,” Church says. “So I don't think there’s been anyone to monitor his coming and going.”

“Nonetheless, no one is  _ positive  _ they have seen him lately?” Martha asks. No answer. “Alright. Moving on. Has anyone seen Paine?”

“Who cares, honestly?” Peggy snorts. She covers Cath’s ears, much to their annoyance. “They’re a dick.”

Martha sighs.

“Regardless-”

“They laughed when Jay died,” Peggy insists, spreading her hands in agitation. “Why should we care about their wellbeing?”

“They were… rather insensitive on the train here,” Church agrees stiffly.

“Stop. All of you,” Martha says through gritted teeth. “The point of this isn't to justify why we don't care that these people are missing. ‘Insensitive’ or not, ‘strange’ or not, these people are on our side. We need to protect each other. We have to work together, if we want to stand a chance. Now. The Adamses. Has anyone seen them?”

A beat passes.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Martha sighs.

Then, like a corpse stirring in a morgue, the quietly mourning Theodosia Burr speaks up.

“And now what?” she asks simply, her voice hoarse.

Martha tilts her head slightly.

“Pardon?”

“Now what?” Theodosia repeats, a stark, humorless smile inhabiting her expression. “You mark them down as absent? Call their parents?”

Martha frowns, lifting her chin slightly in hesitant defense.

“I don't follow,” she says stoically.

“What are you going to do, Mrs. Washington?” Theodosia presses. “What is the purpose? What is this achieving? What does this do to change the fact that my only daughter is dead?”

“Mrs. Burr,” Martha says, her expression softening. “I… never having had children, I can only begin to imagine the pain you’re going through-”

“Don’t start,” Theodosia cuts her off, voice trembling. “Don’t you dare try and act like- act like you really care about this. You’re a politician- you’re calculating and strategic and- and you don’t see my daughter’s death as a crime against humanity, you see it like- I don’t know. You see it like the King has just taken your bishop and you’re like ‘well, damn.’ We’re not game pieces, Martha! We’re people, and if you don’t start-”

“I don’t view you as game pieces,” Martha refutes coldly. “I never- the reason I’m doing this is because I care for each and every one of you. There’s no polls here, no parties here. There’s nothing political. I’m deeply sorry about what happened to your daughter, but for the good of us all, you need to calm down and-”

“Calm.  _ Down?”  _ Theodosia repeats incredulously, tears shimmering in her eyes. “You’re a stone cold  _ bitch,  _ Martha Washington. I didn’t even see you cry when your own husband died!”

“Dosia!” Burr intervenes, his tone almost begging. “Dosia, please, let’s just go-”

“I cried  _ plenty _ ,” Martha snaps, and for a second Philip sees the Martha he saw after Washington’s death, when she spoke about revenge with such anger that she seemed like a different person. “I sobbed until I couldn’t cry anymore. I’m not a machine! I’m flesh and blood! I cried, and you didn’t see because I didn’t let you. I didn’t let any of you see, because I couldn’t- I couldn’t fucking afford that, okay? And I’m sorry, I- I’m sorry.”

There's a tense moment of silence, neither woman meeting each other’s gaze.

“Aaron, get up,” Theodosia says quietly, not turning around. “We’re leaving.”

“Theodosia,” Aaron says gingerly.

“I said-” her harsh tone dies on her tongue. “I said we’re leaving.”

Her husband rises and stands by her side, hands slipping into hers. Theodosia turns to the group.

“Do you what you need. Lock him up-” she gestures in Eacker’s direction. “-or don't lock him up, I don't care. Don't lose sight of the real issue here.”

With that, the Burrs are gone, door shutting behind them with a click. The room is silent for a moment. Martha breathes deeply, then sighs, reverting to her professional air.

“Do you want someone else to lead us?” she asks bluntly, placing her hands on her hips. She’s not angry, just regards the room openly. She pauses for a moment. “Because I don’t want to lead if you don’t want me to. I’m not trying to be a tyrant.”

“We want you to lead,” Alex says firmly. He glances around the room, then adds in an afterthought, “I mean, I do. I don’t know if-”

“I do too,” Thomas nods.

“Did you and Alexander just agree on something?” Patsy asks with mock surprise.

“The world must be ending,” James says solemnly.

“You’re a very adept leader, Mrs. Washington,” Angelica assures her. “The Burrs are in a rough place right now, and sometimes it is frustrating to see small matters being addressed over the main issue- but those details still need to be addressed.”

Martha inclines her head with silent thanks.

“Speaking of the main issue.”

Eacker straightens slightly. Philip wonders how often he’s called an issue.

“For those of you still not quite caught up, after Theodosia Jr.’s drowning, Mr. Eacker produced a pistol and shot and killed Charles Lee,” Martha says, her gaze locked unflinchingly on the gargoyle. “As it turns out, the purpose for which he was created was created was to avenge any death he witnesses, since, apparently, each death has a living perpetrator of that death. My question, Mr. Eacker, is this: how have you avoided killing anyone thus far?”

Eacker returns Martha’s gaze, not intimidated in the least.

“I have not witnessed any other death in this palace,” he says slowly. “I was not present for the massacre in the main hall.”

“What about Jay?” Peggy pipes up. “We all were there when he croaked.”

Eacker shakes his head slightly, an almost imperceivable gesture.

“I didn't go to dinner that night,” he says calmly.

A skeptical buzz passes around the room.

“That can’t be true,” Price mutters dismissively. “I mean- even Paine was there.”

“And why is that, Mr. Eacker?” Martha asks over the chatter, crossing her arms.

“Why would I go?” Eacker shoots back. “I can’t eat. I can’t drink. Are those not the purpose of dinner?”

“Were you not curious about what was going on?” Martha presses.

“I knew exactly what was going on,” Eacker says, stone fingers curling into a fist on his lap. “We were invited here to die. I came to make sure at least  _ someone _ pays for it. I didn’t mean for Lee to get caught in the crossfire, but I don’t regret it.”

“That’s enough,” Martha cuts in.

“You can lock me up all you’d like, but-”

“I said that’s enough, Mr. Eacker,” Martha says through gritted teeth.

For a moment, he looks as if he’s going to keep talking, but a glare from Martha seems to make him content to stay quiet. Martha turns back to face the rest of him, uncrossing her arms.

“A vote,” she says. “On how to deal with Mr. Eacker. What do you propose as the choices?”

Alex’s hand shoots up.

“Put him in the dungeon,” he says without hesitation. “He's a danger to us. We won't have to bring him anything, no food, no water. He can stay down there for as long as we need. We can't afford to lose any more lives-”

“Is Eacker not a life, then?” Thomas questions, magenta eyes narrowing. “You're right on one thing, Hamilton, and that's that we can't afford for our group to get any smaller. We can't just lock him up-”

“Better one person locked up than another dead!” Alex argues.

“What do you suggest we do with him, Mr. Jefferson?” Martha asks.

“Continue to let him function as a normal member of the group,” Thomas says simply.

“Of course, some form of punishment is probably in order,” Patsy adds quickly.

Thomas nods, thick curls bouncing with the movement.

“Eacker forfeited his right to function as normal member of the group when he stopped showing up to meals and meetings and neglected to tell us when he and Lee found where their key led,” John speaks up, glowing freckles pulsing at a regular tempo across his skin.

Thomas straightens in his seat and frowns.

“Well, yes, but that’s not the issue. We can’t punish him for something he can’t control,” Thomas presses, gesturing aggravatedly.

“Thomas,” James says, taking one of his hands. “Perhaps we-”

“For something he can’t control?” Mattie echoes quietly, cradling a sleeping Frances. “I mean… we punish people all the time for things they can’t control don’t we? Like… humans?”

Thomas opens his mouth, then closes it again. John looks like he’s seeing Mattie for the first time.

“That is- This is entirely not a class issue,” Thomas stammers. “I don’t know why you’re bringing that up. And frankly- how hypocritical, considering you bear the Laurens name. Your husband’s family is just as bad as mine-”

“And I denounced that,” Laurens cuts in scathingly, freckles turning from a soft amber to a white-blue, like the flame from a blowtorch. “I denounced everything to do with Henry Laurens and everything he’s fucking touched- that’s why I came here in Car 5, because some of us aren’t willing to go morally bankrupt to enjoy living a cushy life of luxury!”

“Some of us aren’t in a position to do so,” Thomas growls, getting to his feet.

James pulls on something invisible and Thomas falls back into his seat as if pushed.

“What the  _ fuck _ , James!” he complains, at the same time John declares, 

“That’s bullshit! Not in a position to-”

“What the hell does this have to do with Mr. Eacker?” Martha yells above the din.

The room quiets.

“Nothing,” Alex offers helpfully.

Martha sighs.

“This infighting solves nothing,” she scolds them. “ _ Nothing.  _ I understand you’re passionate, but we have to focus on the present. Now. The vote boils down to whether or not Eacker should be imprisoned in the dungeon, is that correct?”

No one disagrees, so Martha seems to take this as confirmation.

“Alright, then. Let’s vote. Raise your hand if you believe Mr. Eacker should be put in the dungeon.”

Alex, John, Angelica, Eliza, and Price raise their hands immediately. Mattie joins them, as does Liz. Mulligan raises his hand hesitantly, as well as Maria. Little Cath raises their hand, earning a disapproving look from Peggy. Slowly, Philip adds his hand. He feels like Eacker is looking at him, silver eyes like pools of mercury boring into his skin, but he doesn't look up from the floor. And he doesn't lower his hand.

“...Nine, ten, eleven,” Martha counts. “There are, what, twenty of you?”

“Not counting Eacker, yes,” Angelica confirms.

“Then I believe we have made our decision,” Martha says conclusively. “I’ll need help taking him down. Mr. Laurens, Angelica, would you… thank you.”

The two of them stand, as does Eacker. For a moment Philip thinks he’s going to fight them, but he simply holds out his arms in surrender, like one being handcuffed. John and Angelica each take one. Philip half expects Thomas to make some kind of protest, but he keeps his mouth shut, perhaps in part because James and Patsy both look like they’re ready to lunge to cover his mouth if he tries. John, Angelica, and their prisoner follow after Martha, and with that, the meeting is dismissed. After a moment of relative quiet, everyone starts to get up and leave at their own pace.

“We should try looking for where our key leads again,” Price suggests to Philip, standing. He goes to adjust his collar, and as he does, Philip can see his hands are trembling slightly.

“Hey, are you okay?” Philip asks, standing as well.

“Huh?” Price turns to face him. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Do you have the key?”

Philip produces it from his sweatshirt pocket.

“Yeah, I do. Are you sure you’re fine?” Philip presses.

“Peachy,” Price assures him, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Let’s go. I think there’s some rooms on the third floor we haven’t checked.”

There were twenty of them. Eleven of them voted guilty. Nine of them abstained. If Philip hadn’t raised his hand- well, they’d be a hung jury. He remembers the burning look in Eacker’s eyes. He knows that. He must. He knows that Philip was the one to seal his fate, and he doesn’t seem to type to forgive and forget. Philip follows Price out, leaving the room with an unsettling feeling trailing him; the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he’d made the wrong decision.

\---

Once the Schuylers had left, arguing amongst themselves per usual, Hercules was alone with Lafayette, Adrienne, and Thomas. He’s a little- no, honestly, a lot- nervous to be left with high class monsters, who scare him more than they should, but he knows he has to wait. If Adrienne and Thomas could just  _ leave- _

“You were right, Laf.”

Hercules is really trying not to eavesdrop on them, but it’s not exactly plausible when they’re the only one’s in the room. He would say they’re not being too secretive considering he’s not hiding or anything, but he feels like they don’t even notice he’s here.

“These people wouldn’t listen to a word I had to say if they knew,” Thomas continues, wings flared defensively. “They would lock me up with Eacker, no questions asked.”

“ _ Ma cousine,  _ I hate to imply that you are overreacting, but-”

“What do you mean?” Adrienne asks Thomas curiously. At no response, they ask Lafayette, “what is he talking about?”

“Please, Adrienne,” Lafayette sighs. “Thomas, I hardly think they would do such a thing- after all, you have never hurt anyone here-”

“But I could! And that’s all that matters to these people!” Thomas cuts in, exasperated. “We’ve turned so paranoid that we’re destroying ourselves.”

“We are not destroying ourselves _ ,  _ Thomas,” Lafayette says. “ _ Juste parce que vous êtes un mutant ne veut pas dire que-” _

“ _ Il est _ quoi?” Adrienne gasps.

“Juste  _ parce que je suis un mutant? Je serais mort si quelqu'un savait!” _ Jefferson shoots back. He switches back to English. “And you two aren’t safe either! Adrienne, when’s the next full moon?”

Adrienne looks startled.

“Well, six days, but-”

“Do you happen to have any spare wolfsbane on you? Any silver?” Thomas presses.

“Leave them alone,” Lafayette sighs. “Thomas. I will not let them do anything to you. Are you listening? I will not let them touch you.”

Thomas opens his mouth, then shuts it, shaking his head.

“I have to go,” he mutters. “James and Patsy will start to worry, because apparently I’m a toddler that has to be monitored at all times.”

Once he’s gone, they stand in silence for a moment before Adrienne speaks up.

“Did you say that Thomas is a-”

“Not now,” Lafayette says. “ _ Allez trouver quelqu'un d'autre pour harceler. Je dois parler avec  _ Hercules _. _ ”

Hercules is startled to hear his name amongst the sea of French. Adrienne crosses their arms and leaves, looking annoyed. Lafayette turns to Hercules.

“My apologies for that,” they say curtly. “You wanted to speak with me, did you not?”

Hercules nods. Christ, Lafayette really is beautiful. They have to wear makeup. There’s no way their bronze skin is naturally so flawless, no way their eyelashes are always that dark and full. He finds himself pulling down his beanie.

“There’s… an issue, I need your help with,” Hercules says carefully.

Lafayette tilts their head slightly.

“Elaborate.”

“I was told- I was told to ask you to help me spread this information, because people trust you,” he continues, remembering what Cato said. “There’s a way out.”

Lafayette’s mouth moves for a moment without sound.

“Out of- out of the palace?” they clarify.

Hercules nods.

“One of the humans told me. Yesterday. There’s a train that comes every Monday with supplies. That’s in two days. We can’t get on with the identification charms, but he can turn them off. We get on the train, and we’re free.”

“That seems a little too good to be true,” Lafayette says doubtfully.

“I know, I thought that too,” Hercules admits. “But you had to see him. He was shaking, he looked like he was about to bolt. It couldn’t’ve been acting, I swear.”

Lafayette looks pensive.

“I trust you,” they say slowly.

Hercules waits for the “but”. There is none.

“I’ll talk to Martha tomorrow about it,” Lafayette decides, brushing a stray dreadlock behind their ear. “In the meanwhile,  _ mon cher,  _ want to head back to my room? I can tell Adrienne to leave us alone.”

Hercules can feel the heat rise to his face. He starts to reach for his beanie, then stops himself.

“Y-yeah.”

Lafayette smirks at him.

“You are too cute,” he remarks, and it doesn’t feel condescending. “Come. Follow me.”

Hercules does so, following him out of the lounge and to the stairwell. Lafayette’s room is next to his on the fifth floor, meaning there’s three flights of stairs worth of time for Hercules to think about how he’s  _ actually  _ going to do this. With a  _ vampire,  _ of all people. He doesn’t think he’s ever talked to a vampire before Lafayette, much less… well. Whatever’s happening. Lafayette unlocks their door and they step inside. The curtains are open, letting soft afternoon light in. The room looks more or less like his and Alex’s. His breath catches in his throat as Lafayette turns to face him, so close they’re almost touching. They’re taller than him by a few inches, something Hercules isn’t used to.

“May I kiss you?” Lafayette asks, and they’re smiling just enough that Hercules can see the tips of their fangs. It’s the first time it hits him that this is  _ dangerous _ . If his mother could see him now…

“Yes,” he says.

Kissing Lafayette is like nothing he’s ever done. They’re so certain, one step ahead of Hercules in every move they make. Hercules becomes less worried about matching their pace and lets himself melt into the kiss, lets himself be dragged in by the riptide that is Lafayette. When they break away, Hercules is out of breath. He vaguely notes that Lafayette smells nice, like vanilla and cinnamon and something foreign that he can’t place.

“You are beautiful,  _ mon coeur, _ ” they purr.

“You’re stunning,” Hercules says honestly.

Lafayette hums, pleased, and drags Hercules over to the bed closest to the door. They’re kissing again, and then Hercules is sitting on the edge of the bed, Lafayette behind him, one arm wrapped around to his chest and the other hand on his shoulder. They kiss his along his jawline, then lower- to his neck. Lafayette pauses. Goosebumps crawl up Hercules’s arms.

“Lafayette,” he breathes, scared to move.

“Does this scare you?” Lafayette asks quietly against his skin.

Hercules swallows. No point in sugarcoating.

“Very much, yes.”

“And yet, you do not struggle,” they observe. “Though I could bite you very, very easily.”

Hercules is hyper aware of everything- Lafayette’s body pressed against his, their scent, their lips on his neck. He’s terrified, sure, but he doesn’t move.

“I trust you,” he echoes.

“I’m starving, Hercules,” Lafayette murmurs, and Hercules feels like there’s ice in his veins. There’s a hunger that’s almost lust in their voice. “I thought- they sent me a pack the day before the train came, but I know where the blood from the government comes from, I will not touch it. I thought they would have some here, but I asked and Clinton laughed to my face. I’m  _ starving.” _

Hercules raises a trembling hand and places it over the one Lafayette has on his chest.

“When we get back to civilization, we’ll find you blood. I promise you,” Hercules assures them, his voice steady even though his heart is pounding in his chest.

Lafayette lingers for a moment before pulling back. Hercules turns to face them.

“I suggest not promising anything in a place like this,” they mutter.

“We won’t be here for much longer,” Hercules insists. “Two more days, that’s it.”

Lafayette meets Hercules’s gaze, red eyes shining.

“Kiss me,” they say.

And Hercules does.

\---

“I’m sorry.”

Hercules glances over at Lafayette. The two of them are in Lafayette’s bed, still mostly undressed. His head is still reeling.

“For what?” he asks.

“For the way I acted earlier,” Lafayette says quietly, eyes on the ceiling. “I am not quite… in my right mind these days. But I should not have put you in a situation like that.”

“You’re okay,” Hercules assures them.

A beat.

“May I ask…? This may be rude, but why are you so scared around Adrienne and I?” Lafayette inquires.

Hercules sits up against the headboard, and Lafayette follows suit. Hercules sighs.

“It’s not you, specifically,” he assures them. “It’s… well, everyone that’s a higher class than me. So-”

“So almost everyone,” Lafayette finishes for him.

He laughs.

“Yes. It’s just, uh. Me and my family- we live in San Francisco.”

Lafayette raises their eyebrows.

“Isn’t that-”

“Very high class, yes,” Hercules says. “Huge vampire population, lots of phoenixes and sylphs. We clean houses, cook, wait tables- I tailor. Basically, we’ve servants for all the rich people who need people to work for them but can’t use humans, ‘cause it’s California. And they treat us like shit. Everyone. I used to get mad. I used to talk back, but you learn.”

He pauses, touching an old burn wound on his arm with a detached sensation. He can see Lafayette’s brow crease in concern out of the corner of his eye.

“At least, I learned. My brother Hugh, though, he…” Hercules shakes his head. “One day he just kinda… snapped at this vampire whose house we cleaned. And he… he drained him. He died.”

“Herc…” Lafayette breathes.

Hercules waves his hand dismissively.

“It happened. I’m not looking for sympathy. We tried to get it to court, tried to get them to put any sort of punishment on the vampire, but no one would take us seriously. We started getting death threats. And that’s when I really learned that, when you’re someone like me, you keep your mouth shut.”

“I’m sorry,” Lafayette apologizes.

“Don’t,” Hercules admonishes.

They sit in silence for awhile.

“When we get out of here, I’m going to get my family out of that fucking city,” Hercules says with a new resolve.

A faint smile graces Lafayette’s face.

“I’ll help you. There is nothing better for me to do.”

They take one of Hercules’s hands.

“Alright, my turn to ask a question,” Hercules says. “What’s the deal with you and Adrienne? Why did you leave France?”

Lafayette laughs bitterly.

“Ah. Political reasons, mostly. There is a revolution brewing, and as much as we need it, it is a revolution that would like to see my head in a basket,” they explain. “Peasant revolts, and all. But also, Adrienne and I were in an arranged marriage. Our families do not have the best relationship, so our union was supposed to help mend that. However, I mostly like men. Adrienne is a great friend, but we would never work. Besides, they are… a little snobby.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Hercules mutters, recalling them snapping at him on the train.

“I told them I was fleeing to America, and they told me to take them with me. I did. I have family in America, so I thought we could find them and everything would be okay. But America is… really fucking big.”

Hercules snorts.

“We were running out of money and options when we received our tickets. Even in France, there is talk of the mysterious train that leads to death. We decided we might as well. Alex was right on the first day, as he often is. We had nothing. We still have nothing, no? But I would at least like to have my life,” Lafayette grins.

“I’m with you on that,” Hercules agrees. He kisses them briefly. “It’s getting late, I should probably go…”

“No,  _ mon amour, _ ” Lafayette whines playfully, wrapping his arms around him. “Stay.”

Hercules sighs, smiling.

“Alex will wonder where I disappeared to,” he points out.

“Let him wonder,” Lafayette says.

“You’re impossible,” Hercules mumbles, getting back under the covers.

“ _ Je t’aime _ ,” Lafayette murmurs.

Hercules feels relaxed for the first time in awhile. There’s hope. They can escape. They can  _ live.  _ He has a drive, a new purpose for when he returns. He’ll see his family. And he has Lafayette. That’s nice, too. He fades into a soft, dreamless sleep.

\---

Out of a dark corner of the room, a shadowy figure materializes. Blindly, they stumble a few steps until they find the window. They open the curtains quietly, the newly risen moon casting enough light into the room to work by. The two of them in the bed are definitely asleep, their even breathing proof. The figure makes their way over to the bed on silent footsteps.

Hercules Mulligan is sleeping, relaxed and peaceful, long shadows cast on his face. Hopeful. He had been hopeful.

The figure removes a knife from their belt, then stops, blade glittering in the moonlight. They shake their head and put it back. They turn to the other bed, grab a pillow. This end will be silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, after posting the last chapter: I can definitely get a chapter in before 2018!  
> *Cut to me an hour before midnight on New Years*  
> Me, sweating: I still have time!
> 
> So I didn't quite make my deadline, but to be fair, this is a long chapter, and it's pretty jam-packed. Enjoy your ships, kiddos. Also, I deeply apologize to any native French speakers, because the google translate abuse was strong in this one. Happy 2018!


End file.
